Writer's Block:.Poem

My muses are no longer amusing,
the pen no longer spills red ink.
The clouds in my mind do not condense,
thus rain cannot stain the paper.
A blank slate, though cliche,
is the only thing I see.
Perhaps to mean rebirth,
yet the newborn does not go blind.
The faces are stamped on each letter,
even if it is not from nor addressed to them.
Ink can be smudged, yet the one who smears it
can still read the fine print.