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The lights blink on and on,

Doing nothing much,

The technicolour writers block.

What once was a blank page,

Is now a white screen,

Made of a thousand colours.

The cursor blinks,

QWERTY stares back,

Expecting fresh thoughts.

Passing time is sad,

Counting down the hours,

Hoping escape is soon.

I should write,

It clears the head,

And makes me seem less dead.