I write, rectify and discard in disgust
my brain it seems has accumulated rust
scraps of paper lie scattered all around
my pen makes no scratching sound
blank paper stares blankly at me
my muse today has deserted me
it seems to be the handiwork of the ‘jealous’ one
whose wicked, twinkling words I should have shun
with great stealth he lured my words astray
I grope around blindly in nothingness in dismay
alas my poetic prowess has diminished
fickle ideas flit away, it seems as if I am finished!
but sweet revenge will soon be mine
when stars in my favour align.