Russian Roulette

I look back through the notebooks I've put together,
Of poems, of songs, those kinds of things.
I think of all the fun times with the pen in my hand.
My brain must've been attached to it in some way.
I had so much success, so many successes,
Published poems, yes, they were a plenty.
But it seems to me those times are gone now,
For my brain has ceased to crank out new ideas.
Lord, help me out, assist me on this day,
For I cannot make a living continuing this way.

My poems reflect my moods very clearly.
When I write, I feel so very happy.
It's like I'm a child running through a candy store,
Stealing the sweet stuff I love.
It really is better than sex.
I've struggled to perfect my craft,
Getting better with each additional piece,
But now I've hit a snag. You might say, "Too bad."
I cannot continue on this way without my creativity,
And I think, "Lord, what have I done?"
I guess I wasn't destined for greatness after all.

After all the pain and struggle and agony,
I sit around, despondant, with nothing to say.
It's as if The Creator really hates me.
My mother always told to always work hard,
And I'll get what I want to achieve.
I've worked hard. Writing day and night.
I should be adorned with such gifts.
Instead, I'm rendered a relative redundant,
A disgruntled relic, done nothing for thou lately.
Well, I guess there's only one thing to do.
I'll just pick up my revolver, pick it up and shoot.
Six slots, five of them empty.
That leaves one to lodge in my brain.
Oh well. I guess I'll play a little Russian Roulette.