It’s another late night
(Or early morning
I can no longer tell which is which)
And I sit lonesome
In the darkened center
Of my writing room
Attempting to write something
Anything really
Of value or valor
But as usual
Nothing profound flows out
Neither my pen nor my mind
Seems to be working right
Perhaps they are in dispute
Struggling against me
Every step of the way
Keeping my words unimaginable
And the many verses of vices
Refusing to be written