((author's note: Can you??))
Why is there never inspiration,
Rhythm, thoughts, or words that flow?
Why is there always cruel frustration,
Never knowing what you know?
Why is there never truth for knowing?
It is sought but never found
Always nothing there for showing
Seems a waste to make a sound.
Can you understand my rantings here?
Do you have an inkling, see?
If you have, then thrice a cheer,
You have done it more than me.