I have written about obscurity, esteem, love, and anger
Scribbled I did, about values, faith, and even relationships
I have written with people, places and things in ponder
I still dream to copy aspects of untaken, upcoming trips.

Still my inspiration sometimes wanes, and wanders
My fingers no longer communicate with the brain of my creativity
Inspiration grows cold; and negligent just like an abandoned stranger
It has relinquished its power, hold, love, smiles, and time all from me.

Struggle to connect dots, letters, colors, pictures,
A hard-time I find to make designs of class and artistry
Emotional despair like thick clouds stands between brain power and literature
Inspiration like a hot potato has dropped me to decay in verbal misery

No use trying to work the keyboard, even it has refused me space
No use seeking to find some ink, oh that is prehistoric
As if mocking my ever mental effort to rise to a state of grace
Inspiration metaphorically takes me for granted like I’m rhetoric.

Like an addict I will pursue a strong fix or dose
Like a desperate bull, I will fight till my horn breaks
Like a motherless child I will suck my thumb with a finger in my nose
Like a writer, I will restart after crushing many papers – for that’s what it takes

Each time inspiration crosses my mind, I will write
Each time theories desire visibility, for inspiration I will fight
Each time philosophies come by, hungrily I will bite
Stay or go, live or die, hate or love, to inspiration, I have a right!
No matter the circumstances to inspiration, this brainy pen will write…