WB

Every time I'm faced with a blank screen
I turn into a mirror of the blank;
I may, for this, have but myself to thank
That cannot reconnoiter what I mean
And turn into words, bitingly clean,
Before I start. Instead the gears go clank,
The whole machine shuts down, and, if I'm frank,
I turn aside half-fearful of the scene.
Yet there are thoughts that still must be inscribed,
Sometimes for lightness, frequently for sense,
And even more, in humble recompense
For the emotions that they'll have described:
My love is such, which through whatever block
Will force its way with an internal shock.