Thoughtless

What do you do when the thoughts don’t come?
When you wake in the morn averse to a verse,
you want to converse but your mind’s perverse.
With no perceptions or immaculate conceptions,
you’re kidding yourself if you try deception.
While solving nothing your head is revolving,
like whispering Disprins thoughts are dissolving.

What do you do when the thoughts don’t come?
When you’re wearing nothing but a clown’s head,
full of vacant space now your muse is dead.
You’re pestered by jesters of emptiness,
festering sores that you can’t caress.
Avoid premonitions of annoyed apparitions,
and look for solutions to this fools' revolution.

What do you do when the thoughts don’t come?
When lone brainstorms bring famine and drought,
planting anarchic seeds of needless doubt,
sowing themselves and growing in pairs,
with triffid indifference to poetic prayers.
They’re consuming everything but the blank page,
and harvesting nothing but a dark age.

What do you do when the thoughts don’t come?
No instigations or investigations,
manifestations or cheap imitations.
You won’t find a bargain down your local mart,
or add deep thoughts to your shopping cart.
Can’t pay for inspiration on your credit card,
prepare for perspiration now your times are hard.

What do you do when the thoughts don’t come?
No suitable subtleties or touches deft,
thoughtless with only your hopelessness left.
Can you beat these demons stopping you write?
Can you rally to battle and win the good fight?
Should you call it a day and retire for the night?
In the land of the Sandman you’ll soon be all right.