Dry Spell

When those creative juices,
Do not flow very well.
And inspiration, it reduces,
And you have nothing to tell.
There are no new rhymes for you to make.
And no new metaphors to bake,
Into a nice poetic cake,
Served at a picnic by a lake.
There is no picnic.
There’s no cake.
No trees, no water.
There’s no lake.
And the inside of your head,
Is more dry than a dry lake bed.
You’re stuck inside a barren hell,
When you’re going through a long dry spell.

To the Graduating Class of 2011

Why should you listen to what I say?
I’m not that important anyway.
Who am I to tell all of you,
What you should or should not do?

I should probably give you some advice,
Like maybe use sunscreen once or twice.
But I know you’d soon forget it,
(Though, if you do you may regret it…)

Words of inspiration are hard to find.
They’re buried deep within my mind.
Our emotions are deep and elemental,
And words are merely sentimental.

They do not express the way I feel,
And cannot make the feelings real.
But the things that you don’t know about,
You’ll soon have that all figured out.

Still, you’ve heard all of this before,
So I don’t really need to talk anymore.
Your time here ends, and with any luck,
You won’t look back and think it sucked.