Why NOT a Sunshine Scribbler? {Not done due to writers block}

Cursed with this gift
Some nights I'm up so late
Words flow and shift
The burden is so great

Ideas swirling in my head
Sometimes I feel so alive
But others, I'm just dead
I don't even have to strive

They just flow from my hands
Like snakes onto the screen
As I give into the demands
That make me want to scream

If I do not write for a while, I fall
Into a pit of anxious intolerance
I seem to think of nothing at all
And everything, all at once

Then, when I try to write again,
My mind goes blank and I
Fell so absolutely slain
That the thoughts have died