Writer's Block

I pick up a pen
For the twentieth time,
And look for great words
To make a sweet rhyme.

The bright sky has dimmed
To a faded dark gray.
The paper is blank--
I have nothing to say.

I close my eyelids
To summon a thought.
When my eyes open wide,
Each idea I've forgot.

I wish I could write
About life or romance,
But, I have not a letter,
Save my half-hearted rants.

The small hand strikes twelve
On the old-fashioned clock
As I try to dismiss
My own writer's block.

I can't write a poem
Without ink in this pen.
I guess that I will
Forget to again.