When I sit for hours, waiting,
Hoping an idea will take hold—
When I search my thoughts and come up short—
I wonder how I ever wrote,
ever created.
When I struggle to make even these words fit
"What has changed?" I groan.
But then it hits me, true I think,
That past works penned perhaps by me
I cannot call my own.
Hoping an idea will take hold—
When I search my thoughts and come up short—
I wonder how I ever wrote,
ever created.
When I struggle to make even these words fit
"What has changed?" I groan.
But then it hits me, true I think,
That past works penned perhaps by me
I cannot call my own.
