On Writer's Block

My pen leaks,
and then drys up.
My tears are in arrears,
my laughter muffled
by the cobblestones of living.

My pen leaks
on the pavement
in circular, silent drips,
no splatter of excitement,
just a sign
of a slow, self-inflicted death.

My pen apologies to me
surprisingly,
for leaking,
saying "sorry for the wounds,
I was poking you in the hope
that you would wake up."