My hand moves slowly

Here I sit
In a dreadful pit
Struggling to write a single word
With a silver single ball point
My fingers located correctly in the joint

My hand moves slowly
Over the whiteness of the paper
But the words get eaten by my eraser

My mind is like a block
My imagination's mouth is stuffed with a sock

Struggling to spew ideas
Like a bird
Trying to find a mate
As if it's destined to be fate

Finally I start to write a line
Slim and fine
Until a whole stanza is formed
Waiting to be joined by another
Like a little child with his mother

So finally my poem is done
It was a struggle but a whole lot of fun!