Funk

The sheet is blank
The inkwell is dry
There’s no sound when I talk
No tears when I cry

There’s no mirth when I laugh
No anger when I yell
There’s no wound but I hurt
Why this is so I cannot tell

There’s no spring in my step
No sparkle in my eye
Just a dull thud in my chest
Of a heart that beats, “Why?Why?”

The crushing of your spirit
Is like slow demolition
It saps your creative juices
And robs you of your volition

How long will this funk last?
Is it just a matter of time?
Will it soon recede into the past?
Or will there be no reason left to rhyme?

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