SoP 55: Inspiration, or Lack Thereof

As far as my inspiration will go,
Right now I do beweep its dried-up state.
I wish that I had more to share and show,
But oh, alas, it’s all I have to date.

They call it Writer’s Block out on the street,
Although, to us, it’s torture, simply put,
lacking ideas to put upon the sheet
And when some do, they only get the foot.

Oh how I wish I could think of something
that’s worth the pianoman’s good reading time.
And hopef’ly into trash bin he won’t fling
this sorry s’cuse for verse and dreadful rhyme.

Please bear with me for one more couplet set.
Now you are done, seek refuge with your pet.
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I wanted to enter a poetry challenge, but I couldn't think of anything at the time. So I wrote about not being able to think of anything. We writers are crazy like that.

SoP 53: Grey Eyes

Vibrant, warm, cur'ous,
Enthusiasm abounds
In those living greys.
- - - - -
Cold, tired, judging
There's almost something sinister
In the Doctor's eyes.
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'Loo's prompt made me think of a series that we're working on together entitled "Thank You For Encouraging My Lunacy," which you can find here.

The Hopeless Romantic

Hopeless romantic's a bit of an oxymoron
How can a romantic be "hopeless"
If they see beauty in just about everything?
Or can entertain facets of an idea
For hours at a time?
Doesn't sound hopeless to me.

Of course, this attitude may lead
To the fall of these Great Gatsbys,
Pursuing beauty at the price of "reality."
But I think that if beauty is appreciated,
Little and insignificant as it may seem,
It's just worth it.
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Can I help it if standing in the rain for the sake of standing in the rain inspired philisophical poetry?