They refuse

Waves in my head refuse to rise high,
merely reaching a foot or so.
Fail to kindle a flame of thought,
all the matches I rub and throw.

Ahhhh….ideas sometimes,
just refuse to sprout.
Poetic words, lines, rhymes,
so damn hard to come about.

Pen and paper in my hand,
turning, twisting my sleeping wit.
Stuck as in tar for endless hours,
Ceaselessly I sit.

A writer’s block they call,
this dumb phase I guess.
Stupid stretch of time this is,
my own thoughts I cant express.