Poem: The poet

There he sits beneath the bows of the old oak. Twiddling his pen between finger tips. The words unwilling to flow from brain to lips, as his page lays blank before him. Oh how the frustration inches into his thoughts as nothing comes forth to spring onto his page. It was surely blasphemy, that he Sir Morris would have the dreaded writers block! It would not come from his tongue or mumble from his lips. It was surely a curse that he needed a cure from. But atlas there was none to give as the minutes ticked by and the blue jay did fly into the distance for greener pastures and he stuck there like a statue waiting for his muse to come forth and Grant him inspiration.

Published by N.K. Sterling

A sibling and daughter to some, a friend to others. As an artist , writer, and dreamer N.K Sterling spends days crafting new creations be it in painting or jewelry making or dabbling in many creative avenues in life from music to sewing has only made Sterling more inspired to keep trying new things. Enjoying a good book by the fire, or an adventurous outing with furry friends is always a go to for this expressive soul. Writing has been a passion since the age of twelve and the associate's degree in liberal arts has only help expand this creative mind for future endeavors while currently living in the southern USA.

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