I just don't have the fire within me anymore.
Rhetoric's at its end, just when creativity reaches peak.
I'm staring at this page, but every word I write is bleak.
What happened to the times my words shook people to the core?
Could it really be that my mind's just another bore?
Dear dreaded mystique, masked in blank, blurred peeks.
Hear these pleas from a hollowed, shallow geek.
I'd rhyme more, but when my flow shrinks, this heart feels sore.
Should I ignore it and try to act like it's not hopeless?
Maybe I could bang a different drum, and hear a brighter strum.
If it makes it any better, I'd even take a lighter leap.
And stick my pride down my spine, and try to reassess
If everything's just fine, or if it needs a tighter hum.
Should I keep on going until I fall asleep?
