A thousand sonnets used to teem in me
But they are spent; unless a thousand more
Should rise behind them to conveniently
Allow me to feign inspiration for
A longer period, I must now cease
And come to silence. What will follow that
I cannot say; I cannot find release
Without the poetry. I have grown fat
Upon the ease with which it let me speak
The pains I felt, but now must come the squeeze;
For in a world without it I must leak
Emotions out in terrible disease
Or bottle them and die. Or maybe I
Will find another way to mope and sigh.
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