My muse has left me; my passion is gone.
The words will not come, my thoughts suffocate
Under the weight of my brain’s stagnation
My rhymes have gone stale, my words lackluster
It should not affect me so, this dark thought
I cannot remember how to be sad,
How to be happy, I fear I’ve gone mad
It cannot be cured, this absence of hope.
Apathy is indeed a fearsome fate
For a poet, more so than most can know
Worse even than succumbing to my Hate
The death of my art deals a Mighty blow.
ablankscript 