A trickling river
Where an ocean once roared
what's left is what's gone;
you don't try anymore.
burning midnight oil to the finish
is an impossible feat
when ideas perched atop your head
fall lifeless on the sheet
fortnight after fortnight
you become a desparate fighter
"false words for false writers!"
it's hard to find inspiration
when you're pressed against a mould
groping around for lost words
when there are none to hold
Instead, you've let them all out
scattered across the pond
and watched each of them float away
wafts of inspiration gone
The maginficence is torn down
yet inky ruins remain
a reminder of what was lost-
beautiful words and a forgiving brain.
The midnight oil is through
your emotions are askew
you look down your paper and gaze;
there are still no words on your page.