Inspiration is not.
I hold a Pen and Paper,
full of
Meaningless
Scribbles,
and try to Find
A trace
of
Intelligent Thought.
I close my
Eyes
and strike a
Melodramatic
face
In hopes of Stirring
Thoughts of
Passion,
Love
or
Hate.
Instead I Laugh
At myself,
I envy the
Ingenious.
I call myself
Pathetic
and Deem my writing
Meaningless.
A prayer
Sad,
drooping with
Hope for hope
of Inspiration
leaves my Lips a Breath,
And my Pen
without
Direction.