When the writing feels stiff and stifled,
Uninviting where once delightful,
Where do you hang a pen?
From end to end I’ve searched my soul,
I’ve looked within, I’ve paid the toll,
I’ve strolled deep down that memory lane,
But writing now just feels too plain.
So I ask you now my dear old friend,
My dried up, withered, wilting pen,
Where do I hang you in the end?
With words all gone and want well spent,
What show you now in your defense,
But passion’s long and growing blaze,
Died to embers in it’s place?
Have you nothing left to say,
With such old and fading grace?
Where do I hang you in dismay?
To say goodbye and walk away.