This loss of inspiration

Is driving me mad.

It’s like constipation,

And it makes me feel bad.

 

Finding words to start

Is like chasing a ghost.

I quickly lose heart

And mumble at most.

 

My days offer time

To put pen to paper

But my quest for a rhyme

Disappears into vapour.

 

I'll try tomorrow

To find what I lack,

I’ll banish the sorrow

And bring my muse back.