I sit by the clock, but I wait for the time
As I hold the pen over the paper.
The minutes go by and I can’t seem to find
The words or expressions: I’m vacant.
By siege, it seems, nobody will help me.
No matter how much I beg and plead
Day by day, I sit by my clock,
Wasting my black inked paper away.
It seems to me that I am pathetic
Writing is just not my style
And if I were to attempt to find inspiration,
Just one last time, I will turn to stone where I sit.
I wish I did not think that time was precious
So that I could just wither my life away
But I fear that there is so much more to do
In life and so much more to see
Yet, still, I sit and bite my nails
Just waiting for inspiration to hit me
And when I wake up from my writers phase
Remind me that this is my life
Writing is the life that I chose
And to tell you the truth it's not wasted,
As I sit by the clock in the middle of the night
Waiting for some type of lead.
Yucky, this 4 lined stanza annoys me... Blah!
