Every writer seems to have a poem about writer's block in their arsenal, and this is my effort.
The insecurity of the chronically untalented:
I speak in convoluted metaphors
Write my rhymes in semaphore
A inconsistent yawning pause
Impregnated with creative spores.
My words - still grounded - long to soar
But I am naught but a Muse's whore
Writing just to settle scores
Hyperbole my only claws
But simile won't help my cause
And help me win such lonely wars.
My heart, inside, shows such remorse
Meagre talent ran it's course
And left me beached on barren shores
When once poems dripped from every pore
Now the words no longer soar
And I will be a poet no more.