There is a literary toxin to

slows down my biceps of fluency,

A grim behemacy,

a hazy wall, unseen but powerful

that plunders my ideas into oblivion

 

But as my mind witnesses this

theft, it can do nothing

but seek an oasis where it shall

come back to life

 

My passion for the ink increases

but a strange weevil of literature,

bores into my neurones,

and suck my imagery like a tick

 

You call it writer's block,

I call it literary friction,

I need a book, a lubricant of literature

maybe Hard Times, by Charles Dickens

to enrich my mind

which now becomes impoverished

and is tempted

to dive into the dry pool

of apparent repetition.

                                           By Kakraba Afful


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