This is the verse of writer's block
Of boredom to extreme
This is all that goes on the page
When your heads a rusty machine
This is an ode to those
With a sudden lack of thought
Who've recently become so slow
Your mom thinks you're smoking pot
This, a scribbled sonnet
Nothing less and nothing more
For all those out there
Who's writngs become a chore
Dad always said to me
"Use your brain, it's a tool"
But right now all it's doing
Is telling my brain when to drool
With every passing second
You feel your brain turn to mush
With a slow creativity
That needs a little push
This is the epic of the couch potato
Growing little spurts and eyes
And you'd agree at the moment
You'd be more useful French-fried
Where's the beauty?
The inspiration, where's it been?
Cause you're really screwed if sloth is still a sin
You need some angst, passion, despair
Because if this keeps up
You'll be pulling out your hair
So pick up that pen
Heavier than rocks
And try not to think
About the color of your socks