When I can’t think of anything to write. 

Mindless. 

Thoughtless. 

Wordless. 

Empty. 

Blank. 

Slate. 

The muse within me. 

Is dead. Deceased. 

And unmoving. 

I cannot write. 

A word. Nor scribe. 

Even a letter. 

Upon the script of time. 

For of nothing comes.  

Nothing. 

And I am nothing. 

As is the muse. 

Within. Me