It's like moving to a new country, I swear...
Ay-nee-way, I've been challenged to try this very frightening (I think) part of literature known as Poetry. You may or may not have heard of it.. Go easy on me.
A First Attempt
Here I sit with pen in hand
To write a poem oh-so grand.
I sing and snooze,
I mull and muse,
Yet, alone, no thought can stand.
I once thought poetry was fun,
Or so said my father’s son.
The blank paper I see
Keeps glaring at me—
I’ll never get this poem done.
For insight, I observe my room—
Dolls, books, a flower in bloom.
No thought comes to mind—
My insight must be blind—
For I’m left with no poem, but gloom.
I moan and groan and pull my hair,
For my brother lied—oh, how’d he dare!
No poem I’d write,
No matter the night;
I’ll never write again, I swear.
I dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s.
Don’t ask me to write another, please.
My rhythm’s off
And so I scoff—
Poetry I’d write forever, I tease.
I throw my pen atop the table
To read this poem (if I was able).
I cringe, I cry,
Yet deep inside,
My talent was there, a bit unstable.
I share my work with friends galore
For all their comments, I implore.
They read and were pleased
With this opportunity I seized;
I was anxious to write some more.
So here I sit with pen in hand
To write a poem even more grand.
I sing and snooze,
I mull and muse
Until a poem, alone, could stand.
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