Shackled, lady creativity sits on the floor

And stares agaze outside her pane-less window

Watching the world go

As she's high up in the trees

Dreaming about what could have been

Fingers loose and rocking

To the heavy air

 

She's doing nothin'

 

The blankness in her heart

Not a stir of churning emotions

Her marrow, a tepid warmth,

And her hair a boring flow

From sunrise to sundown

The materials of inspiration

Dissipates with the upbringing of night

 

But she keeps staring

 

Hoping when her hands ache

To grab, or seize, the pen

But she remains a tired mistress

And reminisces on how today looks the same

With tomorrow and yesterday

Mirroring her every move

Til the array of motions mimic weltering waves

 

There's a happening somewhere

 

But she fails to notice it

As she closes her eyes to picture

A romance she wants

With a blank sheet of paper

Fiddling with ideas and trying

To hear the sound of music 

Voices and laughter

 

But she doesn't feel a thing

She's bored, down to the core.