Behold the sad young poets, marking time,
whose love is not a weariness or loss;
they lose all hope of rhythm or of rhyme,
without a care to carry like a cross.
Their one and only struggle and frustration -
the never-ending curse of writers' block -
alone can never bring them inspiration;
it cannot both at once be key and lock.
Their words take flight in manner like a snail;
their hearts are not yet hot, or go astray.
They long for news of trouble or betrayal,
but, sadly, in contentment pass the day.
They doodle drivel meek of mouth and mind,
free verse around their captive souls entwined.