There is nothing new under the sun; I think Solomon once said,
Looking at my page, he is right; creativity is dead.
White, harsh, staring, mocking, jeering and foreboding,
Intellect so crushed, a heart so empty my brain is moaning.
If there is a spark, there is no fuel, with fuel there is no spark,
I look around, I walk, I read, I type and write, nothing hits the mark.
Yesterday was blank, yesterday before a desert too,
Disjointed lines, fragmented thoughts, barely a rhyme can I do.
Best leave it there; it is becoming somewhat strained,
What should I do, dead and lifeless thoughts gone down the drain?