Writers Woe

Words dance around my head
spinning and spinning
doing cartwheels and flips
as a pen lays dead.

Only inches
from key pads scream,
dreams about poetry past
as I sit on my ass.

Cursing a printer
that doesn't print
for ink I bought ran dry.

If I had hair
I'd surely pull it,
and if I had a gun
my computer I'd shoot it.

I can't find a theme or even a line
within my cluttered mind.

So I stomp erasers
and throw pens,
tear some paper and slap my screen.

Yet words still dance
around my head spinning and spinning
as a pen lays dead.

I kick old whiteouts butt again...