Messy stains
Blacken
Fingers
Ink’s permanence
Often
Lingers
Yet the feel
Of pen in
Hand
The writer’s heart
Still
Demands
Ink
The Well Ran Dry
I had
Big plans
Grandiose ideas
Ready
To commit
To paper
But alas
My pen only
Sputtered
Spitting out
But a few
Meager
Drops of brilliance
Before coming to
A screeching
Halt
End of
Story
Out of My Write Mind 