My head is vacant.
There is a great void between my ears.
Like a coastal Louisianatown in the hours before a hurricane lands,
There has been an evacuation orderfor the inhabitants of my cranium.
There are cobwebs collecting where thoughtsused to dwell.
You can hear the eerie winds howling
In this barren desertof empty thoughts and ideas
Where countless expeditions have died ofthirst.
This ghost town has not been deserted
For an extensive period oftime however.
It was once a thriving business center.
Investors andphilanthropists alike would frequent this place
And attempt to plant theirfutures in its once-fertile soil.
But inspiration's train has derailed longbefore reaching Saucier Station.
Why have I been plagued with this blackhole?
What have I done to offend the creative-writing gods?
Will I everrecover from this illness?
Wait! Has the spell been lifted?
Have I locateda magical panacea for my troubles?
Yes!
This elixir of images anddescription has dispelled this headache.
This is great!
I feel likeFaulkner or Emerson!
But now what do I write about?
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