Life Sucks (When You Write Bad Poetry)

The masses look to me for inspiration,
Something to spark 'em, to excite 'em,
But the abundance of ideas has run dry,
So there's no more shit for me to mesmorize you with.
Get a life, people, or be freshly fucked.

My muse of mind must've died on me.
I just can't spin no raps or no rhymes.
My brain was once an endless sea,
But now, I've hit hard times. Oh damn.
Life sucks when you write bad poetry.

Spinning lyrical etudes is what I do for a living.
I guess that's all for naught now.
What once was an overflowing dam of ideas
Now is a parched desert with prickly cacti, sagebrush and such.
Time will pour on in the hour glass, but slow.

So that's it then. D.C. al fine,
Or whatever shit it is you guys say for "finished."
I'm through trying. I'm done explaining.
There's no more reason for me to sit here and complain.
Just know that life sucks when you write bad poetry.