I sat and wondered what to write,
but each thing that I put on paper
just didn’t sound right.
Perhaps I was using wrong words–
using similes instead of metaphors,
incorporating the passive
where there should be action verbs.
Then I conclude there’s too much noise
and travel to a different location.
Now my muse feels constipated:
unable to gauge the fiber of inspiration.
Hours morph into days and weeks,
and balls of paper litter the place.
I’m concluding my ability’s no gift from above
but instead, decaying and going to waste.