Forgive me for posting the draft of some words in my head. It’s the ramblings of a tired mind mostly…
On the tip of my tongue
Sits a poem unsaid
Unwritten, unstated, and almost unthought.
It pervades my conscious,
Stanzas half formed
With offbeat words falling out.
From what I can tell
It talks of love,
Of life, of loss and that inbetween
And yet it seems new
Like nothing I’ve read
Although I’m sure, written down, that it would.
Each time it begins
A new sentence takes shape
With different words but the same melody.
How came this to be?
Is this rubbish, I think?
Am I rambling to keep out the cold?
On the tip of my tongue
Sits a poem unsaid
It echoes a life once led
When music was written
And poems drafted daily
Creation sparking in my head.
Adventuring with Fi 
It seems my dear that you have this creativity right on the summit of your mind, right in-between, fading into the grain. You spit it out and it is transformed into something a bit clunkier, but your description of this grey place where poems are given birth is nice, and if you applied yourself for a short while(daily practice, reading other poets) you could get back easily to the place you were before, and transcend that definitely. Get to a place where the moment is filled with energy, where your mind isn’t so much tired but scared, riveted, pulsing, absorbing, sailing in peace. Get at it!
A great read.