It seems today my muse is burnt out,
she doesn't want to talk to me,
so all I can do is talk with you,
and write fake poetry.
It happens at times, I guess it's true,
don't worry I'll be fine.
and if things get bad I won't get sad,
I'll probably just loose my mind.
See this poetry thing is my release,
I write to ward off stress.
Don't act surprised at my muse's false demise,
it's my fault I confess.
She's overworked and underpaid,
she doesn't get much sleep.
She keeps the time, and throws in rhyme,
and makes others want to weep.
So hopefully I'll write again,
a poem that I can say,
but until tomorrow, I hold this sorrow,
because I don't feel like poetry today.