Out again went the light,

With my muse gone I can’t even fight,

I ain’t for some reason as well got any sight…

Can’t write let alone speel,

So what’s the problem here, what’s the deal,

From past poems maybe I should steal,

Like to be new, like to be one of the few,

Is this how they started when they wanted to invent the wheel…?

Oh well, this lack of muse comes and goes,

And really it just freakin’ blows,

To write is to compose,

The writing of poetry and such, on us. just kinda grows,

See ya’ll later I suppose…J

© ed ~ 12/20/05