T’was the night after Christmas and all through the place
one author was finished with stuffing his face.
He stared at his blank-screened computer with care
in hopes he could find a catalyst there.

With rings round his eyes and bags on his cheeks,
he looked like he had been working for weeks.
The wretch had relaxed and not written for days,
but now he returned to his book in a craze.

All the eggnog had long turned to lead in his guts
as his thoughts slogged in vain through all the old ruts.
For his muse was reluctant to share her sweet charms
and feelings of panic danced down his arms.

He begged and he screamed and one time he pleaded,
but all his deep oceans of thought had receded.
The banal remainder just leaked out his ears
and pooled in his fingers, gave voice to his fears.

He typed and the lead turned to gray, molten rage
as reams of prose bilge appeared on the page.
His fingers were jitters, his pores they were seeping.
His eyes had the gleam of a deadline that’s creeping.

He hissed as his foul words rose into the night,
“I’ll revise you tomorrow. Now get out of my sight.”

– Jeffrey Bardwell