I feel the pressures and stresses of life,
of the everyday, money worries, work problems,
continuing car-trouble,
family commitments,
everything seems suddenly so complicated,
life in general.
I find myself stressing about everything,
even my writing which was always
the crutch I lean on,
my emergency pull-cord.
Am I writing enough,
as much as I used to,
as much as I should?
The words writer’s block bounce
around my head.
Writer’s block.
It sounds like a cocktail in a swanky
city-centre bar.
I’ll have a diet Coke and a writer’s block.
Are my poems original?
Am I plagiarising and ripping off everything?
The title of this poem, even that’s the name of a song.
I’ll change it.
Yes, I’ll call it Help!
Oh, hang on a minute…