As April leaves and May comes into sight,
I pause to breathe a sigh of great relief;
This poem is the last I need to write
And so, I think I’ll keep my writing brief.
A lack of inspiration holds me back,
I have no motivation to begin.
A stimulus, a muse is what I lack:
No strong emotion bursts out from within.
But still, the thought of finishing this chore
May spur me on and help me to create
One final ode, so I need fret no more,
And then my writer’s block will soon abate.
This will soon be done now that I’m on it
As it’s just another bloody sonnet.