Musings

I wrestle with the paper,
Committing rubbish to it.
I’m bloody good at what I do,
So why, why can’t I do it?

I cast my eye around the room
In sheer exasperation;
Nothing seems to answer to
My plea for inspiration.
I sometimes sit for hours
(And that’s no exaggeration)
Waiting for my muse to strike
In tense antici...

... yeah.
Calliope must admire
My fervent dedication,
But even if she does
She doesn’t give an indication.

I want to write a poem
That will sweep across the nation!
Something to evoke such grief,
Or anger and elation!
But instead I suffer,
To my constant irritation,
The ugliest of writer’s blocks –
A lyrical castration.

“Where, oh Muse, where are you now?
Please end this mad frustration!
Why not give me something here,
Some cause for celebration?”
But never does she answer
To my plea for information,
So I just sit and grumble
At my lack of inspiration.

I wrestle with the paper,
Committing rubbish to it.
I’m bloody good at what I do,
So why? Why can’t I do it?