November first, I should feel a thirst
Instead, bereft of the prose.
Stuck in a place, without sign or a trace
of the wordsmith who lives in my nose.
In my psyche, my heart, in all of the parts
Including each one of my toes.
I’ll no longer wait, or capitulate
But type until caught in the throes.
Unleashing the torrent, not to write is abhorrent
I’ll push through, see how it goes.
Filled with desire to create things that inspire
Not wanting to sleep or to doze
100 words every day, helps me to say
Watch how a logolept grows.