Is seem as though I've lost the right
The ability, as it is, to write
Though I may have the will to fight it
The paper: my pen will not bite it!
And the sea of my mind, where ideas flow
Is staunched with a stream of "I don't know"s

I linger on and on, without an end
Waiting for a rebounding trend
I hope sometime if time permits
I can pull myself out from this pit

Oh Muse, where art thou? I must ask how
You let me go so long; why wait 'til now?
As for poetry, it seems I am no good at it
On the bright side, at least I've kicked the habit

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Miraman, in the year 327 AF.