Sitting here, under the green tree’s breeze

There’s a pen in my hand

Awaiting words to come forth

Moments to cease

.

But I can’t think what to write on

The blank page mocks my skill

As I search for words to be displayed

Time ticks away still

Words shuttle between my senses

Ideas fade

.

I can’t think what to write on

How about a love song

But the hate I have for love is so strong

How about a poem of my home

That is the place where I do not belong

.

My ink spills, but nothing flows

I am lost in this artistic disarray

My inspiration comes and goes

There’s no wordplay

.

Jumbled thoughts of words collide

No metaphors, no rhyming words glide

I can’t think what to write on