Help me if you can I'm feeling down,
I can't seem to pick my pencil off the floor,
all my papers are scattered on the ground,
I can feel my magic talent walking out the door.

I was once the great Hemingway,
now I feel as alone and empty as Poe,
These streets are endless and I can't find a way,
now I realize that I am my only foe.

I could write like the romantic Neruda,
or narrate just as good as Thompson,
but I've been stranded on this beach Bermuda,
to inherit the kingdom of the long lost son.

Angel of poets please grant me more time,
give me enough inspiration to write once more,
just the right words to make her mine,
to let her know she's the one that I adore.