Beset by worn cliches and shattered remnants
Of poems long forgotten, uninspired.
The tattered pages lay, like tired vestments
Upon my bedside dresser down the hall.
Their fragments lay in pools of shallow substance,
Midst couplets far too trite to be admired.
A jumbled mess of vague and clouded essence
For whom my spirit bled I can't recall.
I put my pencil down as I grow tired
And throw another page into the mess,
Of dull poetic bastards that I've sired.
Reflections of my glaring emptiness.