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Out of ideas

My brain registers empty,
thoughts are bleak,
these creative topics i hope to seek.

My pen is moist with ink
But my hand lingers over this blank page,
I hate this unknown feeling of distasteful rage.

My topics are bleak,
My poems bland,
I need a topic my pen lingers in my hand.

I'll take a second try to think,
Look over my past writings,
My eyes search the scenery, what is it that im seeking?




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