She sat down and she tried to write,
She tried to be creative with all of her mite.
She wrote lines after lines of delicious descriptions,
But nothing would ever come, even close, to fruition.
It has been so long since she had activated her brain,
And it was only herself that she had to blame.
It was at the darkest of night that the words came alive,
And so it was then that the stories began to thrive.
As soon as the sun rose over her head,
The weary creator got out of her bed.
All the takes of drama, excitement and woe,
Were nowhere to be seen, she had nowhere to go.
And so she sat down and she tried to write.
She tried to remember with all of her mite.
She wrote lines after lines, not knowing where she was going,
And all she ended up with, was this terrible poem.