Ode Rage
I push my pen around the page,
it pushes back and sneers.
When I incur a paper cut –
I cry, the paper jeers.
A face appears upon the page –
a horrid, mocking troll.
Now my chair collapses
and I’m truly on a roll.
My pen falls down beside me.
I’m sure I hear it speak.
It mutters, ‘Feelin’ lucky, punk?’
I answer, ‘Feelin’ weak’.
Dead lines are sneaking up on me,
like zombies, clawed extended.
My brain is full of jellybeans –
the jar has been upended.
My Muse is out to get me
and I’m filled with angst and fear.
I send regards from Writer’s Hell,
be thankful you’re not here.
Bill Condon
- Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #5
Australian Children’s Poetry 
Clever, Bill. Witty! Thank you.
Seems like an ode to old age… but of course it’s a rage against the white page. Well done!
Fantastic Bill. I thought it must be your work before I reached your name at the bottom.
Terrific Bill. Your muse can’t be all bad.
Oh Yes! I can identify, sadly ;(
Oh but I am (in Writer’s Hell). Aren’t we all? Great poem.