Desolate Writer

My muse has left me high and dry,

my well of creativity has run dry.

I used to be a writer extraordinaire,

but now I'm just a hack who can't get by.

The writing that once flowed so freely from me,

like a river of gold, has turned to dust.

My readers have all deserted me, en masse,

in search of better writers than I.

It's hard to watch as others take my place,

but even harder to admit that I'm through.

I'll never write another great novel or play;

my days as a writer are done and gone.