If my mind is lazy, so is my pen.
A cloud of laziness consumes my thoughts,
and a search for my talent begins again.
How could i leave my paper empty for so long?
Killing the connection that made my words so strong.
My pen is ready for creation, but my mind is drifting.
Moods are shifting and excuses are piling up.
A fiery passion is losing its flame
and my pen is taking all the blame.
His ink is blood and his pressure is rising.
Lack of exercise makes him less enticing
So where is the writer, why is he still hiding?
Is there something he is still learning?
Only he can free his pen from laziness
Only he can make his pen continue where he left off.