I touch my strands of creativity
The golden things I call haven
I feel them soft and silky
I have a deep strong cravin'

I touch my strands of creativity
They feel so old and frail
Too long, have I been gone
And now they're boring and pale

I touch my strands of creativity
The block to creating a piece
The faint trail is gone
So now I beg of you, please

Please return the strands
Back on my precious head
So I can finish this poem
Instead of leaving it and going to bed . . .