Aidan Rasor, Eater. 
An empty, sorrow void
Thy sentences’ own fear
Flashing cursors stare like zombies
The death of my career
I fear my work is such cliche
That sadness is my glee
Awaiting notes, and golden quotes
A word to come to me
Blank slates in mind, ideas vanished
A forceful grasp on thoughts and quills
My undone work, a poor plot waiting
Dissolving all my fleeting skills