by Zoe Graves
Lament of the fact it's all been done.
|What do you do when it’s all been done?
When fresh, new ideas never come?
When the well of inspiration has run dry,
And you don’t even have the motivation to try.
With all songs sung and all stories written,
What is left for those still bitten?
Infected with the need to sing, to tell,
Trying to dredge the bottom of that well.
What is left to share with the world
When your ship still has its sails furled?
It’s not coming in, not coming ashore
They’ve seen it all a hundred times before.