I seem to find it harder in these times

to pen the funny things I wrote before,

when I knew nothing of the craft of rhymes,

and had no problem rapping Happy’s door.

My inspiration seems as strong as then,

but now I know how good a piece can be,

I check it, then I edit thrice again,

before I’ll write the author’s name as me.

Perfection is a fickle goal, I know,

and writing used to be an easy thing,

I’d take the pen and words would start to flow

and everyone agreed I was the King.

I never meant this write to turn so bleak,

forgive me if I dropped my happy shell,

some days I feel alone, forlorn and weak,

and trying to exist in modern hell.

Don’t get me wrong, my muses all still scream,

I have a hundred poems in my head,

but still I’ve yet to write about my dream:

some cosmic, moonlit, love-struck watershed.

I thank you for your patience, now I’ll go,

I’ll write about a monkey, or some flies,

and even if it’s funny, you should know

that in between the lines this writer cries.