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