Here’s a poem I wrote about five years ago. At the time I had an assignment to write for a class, and had absolutely no inspiration. No inspiration for anything I thought was good, anyway. I penned the following poem in the midst of my frustration that night.
The Page’s Epitaph
This paper waits; the moment holds
Its breath for the bright words to come,
But nothing brilliant there unfolds—
The silence still is waiting dumb
For lines to flow forth from the pen.
Words, words! the barren paper screams!
Uninspiration like a fen
Of fog and swampy darkness seems—
I am unloved! bursts forth the gasp
From out the page’s snowy deep.
No words unfurl within my grasp—
My fickle muse seems dead asleep.
And so with utter grief I bear
The sad news of this tragedy:
The blank page died for want of words.
This is its epitaph, you see.
Thanks for reading!