Writer's Block

The page rests empty 'fore her eyes
Each minute she heaves wistful sighs
Her inspiration all around
But not a speck is to be found

She runs a tense hand through her hair
Creativeness just isn't there
It isn't in the room at all
Not one small fly walks on the wall

She doodles tree and shade and plum
And still she waits for words to come
In boredom wonders why her muse
Has left her with no words to use

So on this lovely day of May
She frowns and writes a hacked cliché
And aggravated goes anew
To find something more fun to do