• Tonight I just can't seem to find,
    Neither my rhyme nor my rhythm.
    And as I sift through things in my mind,
    All my bright ideas seem dim.

    And as I sit, I think and wonder,
    How could there be such a crime?
    That my thoughts should fly even farther,
    From my desperately searching mind.

    Inspiration flutters above me.
    Like a butterfly flying overhead.
    And as I grasped it, I looked up to see,
    That the butterfly in my hand was dead.

    I killed the light in my ideas.
    Not knowing that I'd done so,
    And it's just now that I've realized,
    When I'm finally facing my foe.

    The enemy of every writer,
    The so called "writer's block",
    It loomed over me, even bigger and stronger,
    And I just knew I was out of luck.

    The blank pages were against me.
    They set my mind to a buzzing hum.
    And so did the ideas that couldn't break free,
    And my usual words that wouldn't come.

    So to fight against this emptiness,
    I dug around to discover,
    An old idea that might not impress,
    But might make the dimness brighter.