The gorgeous morning leaves me no desire to write,
a sad un-inspiration brought about by sun and light.
The azure sky seems distant and cold.
Whitewashed fences seem weathered and old.
The sparkling bird pond looks stagnant, un-lively.
Will the ducks floating by inspire me? Not likely.
The grass is green, bursting full of life.
But why do I only see pastures of loneliness and strife?
Maybe I am a cynic, a skeptic, a fool,
but I seem to write my best work when darkness rules.
When the skies are gray and storm clouds are abound—
that, for me, is inspiration found.
I write best in a storm, with howling wind and rain.
The words gush out, words of sorrow, of pain.
For poems are made by fools like me, someone said.
Apparently, this fool has one sick, messed-up head.
