Although I try to write my love for you,
the page, I fear, stays resolutely blank;
no message from my muse is getting through,
nor is it likely to, I must be frank.
Yes, writer’s block has been with me a while,
and so your praises must remain un-penned;
I cannot muster words to match your style,
or find the fancy phrases I intend.
If that’s the case, I shall relinquish love
and find some other theme to write about –
instead of staring at the stars above,
I’ll gird my bardic loins and conquer doubt.
The sonnet form (and love) I’ll leave alone,
and like a dog I’ll find another bone.