Uninspired Sonnet Poem by David Welch

You feel that tension deep within your soul,
momento mori, you are on a clock,
inside are many stories to be told,
but within your mind they seem firmly locked.
The energy to take them, make them words,
drains away with the weakness of the flesh,
trying to make them real sometimes just hurts,
and what you write reeks with the stink of death.
You look at it and know, it's just not there,
the story a check that your brain can't cash,
can drive creative minds to real despair,
what seemed so special just comes out as trash,
makes you question your vocation, and yet
uninspired, you can still crap out sonnets.