There are few things I loathe more than writing poetry.
My words fall flat, and the thoughts inside of me
Are jumbled. Confused. My line of thinking
Is tangled, like fishing wire. The lure is sinking.
Sometimes, pen and paper make my heart sink.
I have so much I feel and I think,
But I can't express it with style and grace.
My creativity cannot keep pace
With my spirit. It whinnies and stomps its hooves.
When it takes off, boy, howdy, it moves!
It shakes off my bridle; it shrugs off my crop.
What should be sublime just comes out as slop.
I chase what I think would be deep or sublime.
I fall on my face, but someday I'll rhyme.
Someday, these pages will fill with my words.
Someday, my thoughts and my voice will be heard.
Someday, the ink, the pen, and the paper
Will be a blank canvas for this poem-maker.
Until then, I'll take my beatings and lumps.
My papers will crumple and I'll sit here stumped.
But my spirit and I, we'll ride along still
As I harness my spirit with the cords of my will.