I have nothing at all to write about, really, nothing to write on at all.
I just lie back trying to think now, really, with nothing to think of at all.
My stories have no beginnings, no middles, or endings in sight,
And no characters form as I scratch with my pen or doodle with all of my might. Why can’t I write epic poetry,
like Homer or Milton once wrote?
And am I to lie till the day that I die, never able to scribble a note?
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