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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.

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