Words

Words run dry on the page,
Is there anything left to say?
Time has gone by since beginning,
Maybe the end has drawn near.
Just another stab with the quill,
An empty statement fills the ar.
Crumpled up it wasn’t any good,
It lingers long in thoughtless trash.
One more time before we end,
There another tainted piece goes again.
Bad spots turn into ink blots,
Then run down the creamy white.
What does it matter really anyway,
No one will read this, not today.
If it was made of silk,
Then someone might give a care.
Instead it’s made of common tree,
It’ll be ignored, heard no more.