Uninspired

My muse seems to have fled

My inspiration dead.

I don’t quite understand

Why writing can’t be planned.

I feel as dull as dirt.

My word choice not as pert.

I want to write, I swear,

The right words just seem rare.

I choose to use my muse.

Should she try to refuse,

It’s her I’ll write about,

Whenever she sneaks out.

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