Why can’t I seem to write?
Is it because I think my words are trite?
Or maybe it’s just that words escape me
Like the wind taking control of a kite.
Where’s my inspiration, my muse, my spark?
I feel so lonely and afraid here in the dark.
What am I to do when Webster’s isn’t helping?
Nothing is coming to me; I can’t even make a mark.
2004 Gustavo White
Sandie May Angel