tomorrow seems promising

I’ve got nothing to say,

but I still write a page.

One paragraph deep,

my words fall like sleet.

Then suddenly dry up fast

when I fail to contrast.

My sentences now lack wit,

and my syntax is shit.

But still, I carry on,

inserting words that don’t belong.

I will read this tomorrow

and ask myself what went wrong.

Why were these lines in my head?

Would I rather be illiterate instead,

of publishing such trash,

or am I just being rash?

I know I can write well

even if no one can tell

by my childish rhymes

or cliché references to time.

And I'm doing it again,

so I guess it's true;

I have nothing to say,

but tomorrow I may.