As I sit and ponder
'It's that writer's block again'
While ruefully gazing down
At my less than willing pen
I turn to other poems
For some sort of inspiration
But nothing it seems
Will help the workings of creation.
Do you think it's because
It is my heart that runs on empty
Not brimmed to the full
With deep feelings aplenty?
Or is it simply because
The intensity is not there
Not enough grief
Love or despair?
To be completely honest
I really shouldn't complain
If composing perfect poems
Is not exactly my domain.
It still serves a purpose
When the ink's all keen to flow
When true feelings do well up
And are there all ready for show.
Though I must say it's frustrating
As I'm dozing off to sleep
That musings choose to rise and form
Then vanish before they keep.
