Long I have feared this day would come,
When ideas no longer bloom,
And every inch of inspiration,
Is a struggle full of gloom.
Myself as an artist is dying,
Killed slowly by the mundane things I do,
I should have sat longer praying,
For my soul is in need of help too.
As I become weaker and more feeble,
My hopes begin to dim,
Every thought makes my brain tremble,
As things look more grim.
How I long for the days of youth,
Wasted and withered away,
I was a fool back then I know,
Because nothing is here to stay.
As I slowly stand up again on my feet,
My knees creak and crack,
But I shall not admit defeat,
I know one day I'll be back.
