Spent, spent, spent.
Where has the passion went?
That eager, passionate, youthful vigour?
Just the thought of it makes me feel sicker.

Spent, spent, spent.
No energy to even vent,
No urge to do anything 'cept sit by the sea,
Reading old stories and drinking warm tea.

Spent, spent, spent.
My drive feels like it's been rent,
Some months I feel like its a losing battle,
To even listen to the egotists incessant prattle.

Spent. Are all my paths now bent?
Spent. What have my dreams of late meant?
Spent. Is all that I am, truly, spent?

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Valnuary, in the year 790 AF.