Words have always come to me,
As easy as the air I breathe,
And now they turn their heads and flee,
So I can't write my poetry.
Don't ask me to write pretty words,
They're gone as far as I'm concerned,
They've flown away like little birds,
And now there's nothing to be heard.
I've used up every single rhyme,
A new hobby would be sublime,
I'm sick of always keeping time,
Like breaking it would be a crime.
But even when I try to write,
It seems my flowing thoughts are tight,
The silence gives me quite a fright,
Like darkness in the dead of night.
It's time to say goodbye to day,
So it's good the words have gone away,
I didn't want them anyway.
It's good they didn't want to stay.
Those words have never done me good,
Or gave me solace like they should,
I wonder if they ever could.
Perhaps I have misunderstood.
But anyway the point is made.
I can't keep up with this facade.
The race is done, the game is played,
And now my poems have to fade.
So now my life is up to fate,
To leave you this is what I hate,
And one last poem would be great.
To say goodbye and then- oh wait...
Have I been rhyming all along?
Did I really write another song?
I thought my words had said "so long,"
Now they've come back to prove me wrong.