The pleasure of writing under the sun’s warm light,
there is almost nothing to which I can compare.
Poetry bring to me pride at is greatest heights,
else only music could match a joy so fair.
How I love to watch these verses grow
and grace this sheet with majesty.
How marvelously these words from my mind flow
out of the same abyss as my darkest memories.
The lack of inspiration doth occasionally pain me still
and I cannot discover which hidden crevice in it lay,
nor can I command the it to come to me at will.
When encounter I this dilemma, I wait until another day,
and from older verses, guidance I seek, like water from a well
until, in the desert of Writer’s Block, I no longer dwell.