I think my muse has fallen ill
I've lost my inspiration
I sit alone and grasp my quill
In hopeless anticipation

I scribble lines that make no sense
Only to be erased
The air around me becomes intense
The words I choose, a waste

I cannot choose the words I write
The words, they must choose me
Without my muse my words aren't right
As anyone can see

How can I free my tortured soul,
Without my muse's hand?
The words I choose cannot console
They do not understand

I think my muse has fallen ill
My words have been betrayed
The poems I write I cannot feel
My thoughts have all decayed