A Rant (In Rhyme)

When I have writers block, I write about having writers block.

 

The light glows dim on a lamp lit desk

And the ink writes not a word,

For the lines are empty as my head

In which no thought has stirred.

 

I have long sat here till the early morn

Flaying hackneyed rhymes to death,

But the pen’s unmoved by vulgar trash,

They fade under my breath..

 

I had hoped this dark and muted room

Might rouse my inner eye

To some heightened revelation

Before daylight streaks the sky.

 

Yet in darkness long, I still am short

Of insight; I obsess!

Were there only something to be found

Before this nights regress!

 

Too soon the birds play sunrise songs

To ease my spirit's pall,

But the only dawning knowledge is

I cannot write at all.

 

When I read the work of giants passed

Who have long since wrote a page,

They shine so new with vibrant life

That one knows not their age.

 

Yet I, a youth with ink as fresh

As a pure, unblemished stream

Can only offer stale words

And thoughts already seen.

 

It is this I fear, when I grow old,

If my pen does not mature

Will it never rise to lofty heights

And find the words so pure?

 

I grant, I still have yet to live

And perhaps in future; learn,

Through many poems tossed away

And still yet more to burn.

 

Till then I sit here at my desk,

I give myself to Time,

And offer you this meager scrap

This hackneyed bit of rhyme.