Backed up are vivid concepts

And expressive characters,

A landscape filled with wonder and loss.

I would like a laxative

Or a fiber supplement for writers,

That will cure this dreadful constipation

Caused by my reprehensible environment.

See, I cannot even craft sonnets,

Let alone be my own editor,

When an all consuming darkness is my formidable and constant boss.

So please — a pill, a tonic, anything for a narrative,

Something to make me call myself a writer.

I really would like to get rid of this indigestion,

And reach that pinnacle, writerly enlightenment.