Anguish,
The impotence of my pen.
A tip once wet with joy now lay sullenly dry.
Where do I start and how should I end?
The buzzing bees and petals speak no joy 
Of art to this heavy heart.
No playful muse dances in gaiety with this pen,
No holy spirit flows through the crevices
Of this mind, barren,
As this leaf of paper
Where within,
Lies not a spot of life.