I can only imagine how n'ice e-z floe...

Tubby in the calving throes

breaking free and clear

shepherding, milking, and honing

rambunctious as bovine bris

versus being stymied courtesy

cow - wordly bull aiming writer's block

for drought of creativity.

 

Asper this instance,

when a dearth of ideas

like a charred bait oven

finds me (a Brahms man) looking Bach

at drawing board and/or the clock
as if inspiration

can be found teasing out

whimsical child like spontaneity
recalling hickory dickory dock

rather than exacerbate

mental paralysis, akin

to an invisible vice grip,

which tension eventually

far worse than bill

lee esse ness, which former
grips with irony my chin,
I try release -

singsong restraint and chill,

ready to whip out power drill
not surprised finding sawdust,
viz of course after numbing skull

sticking head in deep freeze

 

or mounting temple

on dry ice, without
receiving nary a cavil

lack of creative noggin fill

intense concentration

invariably heats up "thinker"

as if being scalded,

skewered, sussed out

on a barbecue grill,

(which fixed attention),

never ever engenders

 

positive flow of ideas,

but absolutely ideal

for reducing a molehill

from a mountain dew,

nevertheless within ma mind,

before long prolonged

cessation to brainstorm induces ill

humor succumbing into

torturous mental state

(fall of the cider

house rules usher),

non poe whet

tick dark age,

whar ah felt jill

ted loom min hated

with panic ready to kill...
mice elf (cue Stuart Little),

cuz dem lil
cerebral cogs and wheels
malfunction for more'n a mill
yen times prompting

 

to scout graveyards

for fresh corpse, and lovely bones

if results rendered nill
jet over to Doctor Frankenstein,

even if aye gotta

hightail to Trans sill

vein ya, unless....

perhaps ye kind reader twill
donate yar viable gray matter tummy

(right after ya die) denny ya will
almost be him morte till!