Haven't written in a while,
I've gone a few feet - even miles.
The muse really isn't much use,
A fragile thing easily beaten and bruised.
Waiting on it to inspire
To write words you'd admire,
But instead this is all I've gotten,
A missive, easily forgotten.
Still I hold out all hope,
That I don't sound like I'm smokin' dope.
Waiting on the words to come together,
Wound together like on a tether.
Instead all I get is tripe,
But really, who am I to gripe?
At least I've gotten a tickle,
From that muse, so temperamental, so fickle.