"Self-Pity' by David Herbert Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

Mind Dawn

As the sun climbs higher
As the dark mists vaporise
As dark trees lift their veil
As birdcalls pitter across leaves
Nature's symphony in cacophony
Fine lines drawn in avian lyrics

As little alarms chirp across town
As light creeps behind sleepy eyelids
As sunlight streams past reluctant curtains

Clarity sweeps the subconscious floor

Block

A block of ice
A block of apartments
A block of cemented bricks
A block of ice cream
A block of French fries
A block of creative wood
A block of building blocks
A block of blank words
A block for blows
A b(f)lock of birds

This right here is:
Writer’s block