Sneaky Writers Block

My eyes are heavy,

My head is weary.

I wish to sleep,

But my mind has dug deep.

Into the corners,

and unending corridors,

Of an artists mind,

looking for a rare find.

Vacuous space,

and frilly lace.

Silly words,

and song birds.

They play,

all through the day.

Within my head,

never having fled.

But they defy the page,

the key to my living wage,

and instead exists as catharsis,

(though they act as my nemesis)

And as the clever ass,

Like the innocent bonny lass,

I have pulled the wool upon your eyes,

and when I reveal it, it will cause sighs.

But once more, I have turned writers block,

into a glorified cake walk.

No original material here,

Just another sheep to shear.

P.S. In case you didn't get the pun,

It's actually quite a witty one,

Because i'm feeling rather bold,

I will show, and exclaim "Behold!"

Before, I mentioned wool and eyes,

and then, ahead, I yell surprise,

For then I talk of shearing sheep,

The loss of wool, which is rather deep.

Because I had you so beguiled,

speaking of poems I had not filed.

You did not see that I had lied,

and made a poem, when I said that all had died.

And so, that lengthy P.S,

has made the poem more, not less.

Although it is greater in letter,

I think it's made the poem worse, not better.