there's nothing to write about anymore i'm not inspired; i'm tired; i'm bored i'm sure, by the time i fill up these lines my mind's gonna be wanting more confronting allure, for an encore presenting, unintentionally, a new bundle of joy questioning, why i'm exceptional, that's questionable it's the canvas that demands this like shorty, impatiently waiting to tell me her story after accessing, that i'm not corny i'm the guy, she wants to hear say good night, then good morning when she opens her eyes realizing it's my whiskers whispering something significant, somewhere near her thighs mister, full of surprises, pulling Clydesdales out of a hat cause she told me, she wanted my little pony & i replied, why, when i can do better than that better than him, better than them so you won't have to want, for whatever you want, ever again