Writers Block

Dried up like a rusted bent pipe, Protruding out of unyielding cement. Like a desolate Desert Snake in it’s hole waiting for the first drop of water to be sent, From the Earths cloudless blue ceiling.

My words have become confused and obtuse.
There is no excuse, When blinding thunderstorms produce more imagination than a sunny day.
Days now seem archaic and insensitive as inspiriation fades away.
Water the late bloomer, for I fear it is dead.
Feed the black rose in the back of my head.