As I read past scarred darkened lines
Of poems of yesterday that I could all call mine
But now I feel so rotten inside
And don't dare say I haven't yet tried.

A poem in June could tell a nice story
Unlike today's that are so miserably gory
I'll speak of a time that I once fell in love
But my feelings flew out my ears like doves.

A poem last year could tell of a horse
Creativity decreases; now I just have remorse
For the writing style of which had came through with ease
But it'll never come back even if I say "please".

And that time that I wrote an epic in the snow
But it is Autumn now; and I am a scarecrow
So leave me alone to be wasting away in the field
Who knows, maybe a good poem this time I'll yield

WHAT HAVE I DONE to shrivel away
Out in the night and on through the day
For I feel the child is dying in me
So you'd might as well prepare my grave under a tree.