You wrote yourself in camouflage   To see your eyes spelled out just right and you   Fired your last cannon ball-point pen.   Across your parchment battlefield   So toiled in rhyme and meter and   Your war of words began to meet it's Hell today.      Hold your words against the sun.   It's like high-strung poets on a porcelain string.   Tied to one another, always searching for something.      You'll throw your weapons down again   And see the ink spilled through the page and you'll   Surrender your lasts thoughts to the machine again.      "I've exhausted everything.   You can't pencil in inspiration,   So I'll wait in anticipation for that moment of spontaneity.   The words new to me again,    like they used to be when I could read and write it,   and spoke it's language fluently.   Well, I no longer belong to that community.   I've made my home outside of town and I can't remember how to get back.   There are no maps for imagination.   Directions and formulas are useless.   They'll lead you nowhere but give you thoughts and blank stares.   And I've got nothing. I've got nothing"      Hold your words against the sun.   It's like high-strung poets on a porcelain string.   Tied to one another, always searching for something.      Let the sun disguise the mystery   Of words describing misery.   Face reflecting light beneath the   Thoughts I thought I'd never.