The writer sat and pondered,
Stood there all though the night.
As she wondered,
Why she had no words to write?

She would have stuck to it,
Even when there was no wit.
And others saw,
Telling her to quit.

They laughed and jeered,
Said she was no good .
But the little author never believed,
Their stupid falsehood.

So why right now,
Could she not come up with a single thing?
She was running out of time,
And had no dreams to dream.

                   ~C.L. Hartwick .