Doesn't it **** when your mind goes numb?
When all you can do is twiddle your thumbs?
A blank page before you has infinite plans
And all you can do is fold your hands.

To write such a sweet and lustrous tune
Sometimes it takes the entire of June!
And sometimes it never leaves your head
And it keeps you awake while lying in bed.

It tears at your talent and races your heart
That suddenly you've truly forgotten your art.
That after the years of praise and shower
You can't even recite portray a flower.

It's petals are but some weeping hands
That fall upon such tiny lands
Which bees and such take a tiny hit
Of pollen so rich and....um.....****!

You tear up the pages and throw them away
This is the last time, on the same day.
It's finally done, you sit and you cry
The day that your lustrous talent has died.

So pain and sorrow consume your hour
All is thanks to that ****** old flower.
And your life has turned against the tides
And you life has become a puddle of lies.

To write a poem, a story, a book
To have a knack, a nitch, a nook.
You never give up and never retire
Until you pass your final hour.