Blocking the writer

She speaks of writers block. This is an interesting sentiment. What exactly…she knows.
It’s that place. That time. The one that she’s pondering constantly.
Is this the nature of my writing? Is this what I do?
Surely not. She’s believing those words. Those faithful words. Of sureeeeely not. Surely, not?
Of course not!
And so she exclaims from under her breath. The world is just too much with us, late. And soon.
The whisper is being heard. From afar. A near. A stranger. A glimmer of hope.
Foolishness is weary in a sceario such as this.
Foolishness is weary, indeed. He replies.

By golly. Gee wizz. He’s speaking, indeed.
Indeed? Again. Oy mother, she’s laughing. Oy mother, I fear.
But alas, the mother is near. Coaxing and calming and suring herself away. Sure sure, sure suree.. whatever it is you need to believe. Whatever it is, you need to say. You speak, you laugh. You ponder. And you cry.

But in due time, my love. Your story will unfold. And laugher will commence. And you shall bathe in the bounty. With the lover, and the friend. And he, who shall be brought, upon thee and only thyself.

A little brit for those who may need it. A little love for those who share. And a moon, to you. My dear, dear friends.