I was once able to write poems
But it seems not my brain has crashed
So I'm afraid I will stop writing at last
I can not think of the words to say
Though my brain is thinking every night and day
I can not think of the feelings I
Used to fill my poems with
But now I am staring at my boring, white ceiling
For this will probably be my last
For my brain has stopped
Though writing poetry was a blast
I now say goodbye
And I will soon after cry
But farewell