Backed up are vivid concepts
And expressive characters,
A landscape filled with wonder and loss.
I would like a laxative
Or a fiber supplement for writers,
That will cure this dreadful constipation
Caused by my reprehensible environment.
See, I cannot even craft sonnets,
Let alone be my own editor,
When an all consuming darkness is my formidable and constant boss.
So please — a pill, a tonic, anything for a narrative,
Something to make me call myself a writer.
I really would like to get rid of this indigestion,
And reach that pinnacle, writerly enlightenment.