Forgive the silence of the last week, but I am presently afflicted by a malady for which there is no cure but time. Yes I must say, I am struggling with writers block. But it's not the sort that prevents me from writing altogether, but everything I write sounds the same. It all deals with basically the same subject, but from differant angles, and for the life of me I can't get away from it. All four poems I've written in the past three days are so similar, you would think they were verses of the same poem. Dear heaven, what shall I do? I write every day, but nothing changes. Here is one poem which slightly stood out among the others:

Silver shattered yesterday.
Silver doesn't break, you know
But this silver did.
It fell there beside me
Violently on concrete
Right beside my feet - just missed my head.
For a solitary moment
I saw it's lovely shape.
The reflection of my eyes
Haunted me later in the night.
It frightened me to see it smash
Like my life was taken with it
I could break at any moment
Like the drop of silver rain.

But even that is weak, weak! I lack conviction, eloquence, simplicity - everything necessary to write well. I must be cured quickly, or I shall be very frustrated indeed.