It's just one of those nights where nothing comes,
and what's drug out by main force just won't fit.
You scratch your aching head, twiddle your thumbs
for hours, without one word to show for it.
You run through lines abandoned in the past
for inelegant meter, dodgy rhyme,
or bare stupidity, try to re-cast
them into something usable this time;
Of course that doesn't work, so you just glare
at your impotent pen, that mocking sheet,
so clean and smug, returning your blank stare
until you blink, admitting your defeat.
Sometimes it hits me light a ray of light--
but I guess the Muse had other plans tonight.
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