What can she write about tonight?
The poet, she pauses in the lamp light
A pen in hand, held to her lips
A cup of tea in which she sips.
A distant owl, an idea lingers
Pen to the paper in her fingers
But no, no spark, no fleeting thought
An idea once, but now is nought
The owl it goes, the night is still
What indication, mind to fill
No words, no beat, no rhyme at all
Why does her muse not come to call?
A prompt she thinks what is needs
A flower catalogue fill of seeds
To bloom, to grow a chance to swell
But no, her mind is not that well
She sighs and breathes and taps her head
An idea to write while she’s in bed
But alas, the idea though once clear
In morning will then disappear
What can she write about tonight?
The poet, she pauses in the lamp light
A pen in hand, held to her lips
A cup of tea in which she sips.
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Thanks for commenting. You lovable weirdo