I sit down to write at my shiny mahogany desk.
I pick up my pen but my hands refuse to move.
Words slip before they even reach my tongue’s tip.
No its the pen I think.There is no ink.

Have I no longer a muse to inspire me?
Or have all my emotions run dry?
Have I fallen out of love?
Or was I ever in love?
No its the pen I think. There is no ink

So much life around and beauty abound.
I could write about the moon and the stars,
I could write about a lovers soulful eyes and dark tresses.
I stare at the sheet. It still is pure and white.
No its the pen I think. There is no ink.

Maybe I have no love and lost all capacity to love?
Maybe I live but not feel the life around me?
I tighten my grip on the pen. I strangle it with all my might.
I shake it. I slap it to wake it up from its slumber.
I stare at the sheet. Its blue with tiny specks of white.
It is the pen. There is no ink.