By. Lauren

Drip.
Drop.
Drip.
Drop.
This poem sounds like the rest of them.
Drip.
Drop.
Drip.
Drop.
Am I repeating myself over and over again?
Drip.
Drop.
Drip.
Drop.
I feel like a leaky faucet of ideas.
Drip.
Drop.
Drip.
Drop.
Is there any creativity left in me?
Drip.
Drop.
Drip.
Drop.
My ideas don't flow out like they use to.
Drip.
Drop.
Drip.
Drop.
I think I'm done with poetry.