To wax poetic's all the rage
Come springtime's welcome heat.
When every page becomes a stage,
With dramas we're replete.

I sit to write my poetry
Without a theme in sight.
All inspiration fades from me.
The thoughts don't come out right.

Originality has fled.
What's not been writ before?
The sentiments have all been said.
It really is a bore

To chronicle more sighs of love
Or hearts that break in two
Or sun and moon and stars above.
I strain for something new.

 

The nouns do not cooperate. 
The metaphors are stale. 
No revelations to relate. 
The verbs all sound so pale. 

With nothing singular to say 
And pen locked in my fist, 
I'll set aside my rhymes today... 
And scribe my groc'ry list.
 - NK Wagner
copyright 2014