Author's Note: I wrote this roughly two years ago when I was in the middle of a pretty prolonged writing slump, which I think explains this better than anything else could.


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Inspiration, strike me dead
with the blackest ink of a fountain pen
and if that proves not enough in times like these,
cut me down, like a forest of trees!
How I’ve claimed paper in your name, and oh! what a waste,
and how much ink I’ve used (or rather, abused),
when all it does is blacken my fingers,
and show plainly that not a hint of my former eloquence lingers.
My words have all shriveled and died with the sun,
every scribbled out sentence and meaningless line
have proved nothing but conjecture, and it’s all so contrived,
but wait, Inspiration, I’ve only begun!
My self-pity, as you’ll soon find out, knows no bounds,
along with my crimes, as I commit them freely now,
for you see, Inspiration, without your help
I’ve become a thief, and am helping myself!
I’ve stolen ideas and stanzas and, yes, even prose
and I’ve stolen it all right from under your nose!
I write and I rhyme but what is it worth,
when at the end of the day it’s not really my work?
I’ve retreated to corners where spiders spin webs
as they’re the only ones who dare condescend,
and you’d be surprised, we get along perfectly,
(but not really, as they’ve proven quite arrogant company).
And now, Inspiration, you find me alone,
trying to pass off their silvery threads as my own!
My doom is spelled in the bottom of an inkwell
and what angers me most, as far as I can tell
is that, Inspiration, I can’t blame you at all
because this entire time it’s been only my fault!
You’ve given me chances, but I never take them
and keeping with tradition today is no different,
for what is this but my pathetic complaining?
Nothing, I assure you, just more paper wasted.