With pen in hand I sit here more in hope than expectation
As the ideas buzz around without that spark of inspiration
That can take a simple word or thought from something two dimensional
And give it depth to make it beautiful and unconventional
But tonight that perfect rhyme or phrase or wordplay seems elusive
And as ideas come and go they seem so frail and inconclusive
So instead of trying to capture them in frustration and sorrow
I’ll shut my book and go to bed and try again tomorrow.