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