SHOOTING BLANKS

Sitting here in dark of night
  can't think of anything to write
  the gods of poem looking down
  must think "who is this wordless clown?"

I think I'll write a little ditty
  one that's humorous and witty
  my empty head just offers words
  that when written stink like turds

Casting 'round for inspirstion
  (with slowly growing desperation)
  the page is empty, the words won't flow
  thank God it isn't always so

The well from which my ideas flow
  has run dry ,why? I don't know
  perhaps a poem of work to come?
  "Promises to Keep",already done

It's getting late,I try real hard
  for something worthy of "the Bard"
  the effort's there,the pen's just dry
  "JUST ONE GOOD LINE!" I sit and cry

And now the one I love and wed
  yells"get your silly ass to bed!"
  "come early morn we rise for work
  so stop your scribbling,silly jerk"

So from my post I push away
  (clock shows already it's next day)
  I'm tired, I stumble and I sway
  the Muse will strike another day