As I ponder over this still blank page
I wonder how many a thousand time
I have said those words, I have roamed this cage,
How often have I tried each and every rhyme?
Modern Sisyphus, rolling my boulder
Closer to the top but never reaching,
I throw handsome words over my shoulder,
Trying to bale out, I end up beaching;
I feel more like Tentalus however,
Condemned to always see but never touch
The immoral fruit to make me clever,
Oh though I may grasp, I will never clutch,
And so it hangs down from that acursed tree
Always almost ripe, ever tempting me,
Reflection of greed in my poetry
For in the end I am my own enemy.
The seven deadly sins are present in each and every verse of mine.