An Ode to the Poet With Nothing To Say

I sat with my phone, so bright, so true,
Awaiting grand musings – but none of them grew.
A blank page before me, an infinite void,
Where once there was genius, now only annoyed.

So, turning to wisdom, my wife, my dear muse,
I asked her for insight, some thoughts I could use.
She stirred in the sheets, half-lost in a dream,
Murmured, “Not right now,” and left me to scream.

Not right now? Not right now? But when shall it be?
When mountains erode? When fish climb a tree?
When the sun burns out and the stars start to fall?
Or perhaps, just maybe, not ever at all?

And so here I sit, in the darkness alone,
A poet whose brain has been thoroughly thrown.
No words, no rhythms, no grand inspiration,
Just me and my grudge and a dim-lit frustration.

But wait, what is this? My plight on the page?
The struggle itself has become quite the stage!
For lo and behold, in this terrible plight,
I’ve written a poem… about nothing tonight.