A block

When you sit to write
Something down,
But a lump waits
In your throat
And you can't swallow,
Throw around paints
But the colours
Don't mix,
Everything seems like
A mockery
Not art,
When you try and weave
Something magical,
A beethovan's symphony,
Perhaps,
But tragically,
What comes out,
Is a mediocre sound,
That already exist.
No storm
Surrounds,
no sounds,
No secret pathways
Open,
No new lands,
Just you broken,
Down to
Your ordinary self,
No inspirational dance,
No trump of creation,
no pleasures of immortality,
A block.