After my last post, I was thinking about Muses. What if they existed, and somebody DIDN'T have one, and still tried to write. That inspired this poem.
I tried to write a poem,
But the words just wouldn't come.
I know it sounds quite silly,
And even a little--stupid.
It seems no matter how I try
To make the lines all rhyme,
That they don't work out as they should,
Perhaps they will in--a while.
I had so many topics
To choose on which to write,
That I was sure my poem would flow,
And all in a single--evening.
I could write about love,
Or perhaps joy, or desire--
For these emotions burn within,
Like the embers of a--blaze.
Or maybe my poem should plumb the depths
Of anguish, or of pain,
But all these thoughts were washed away
Like dust in a summer--storm.
I think I wasn't meant to be
A poet, or a Bard.
Who would have thought that writing thus,
Would turn out to be so--difficult.
Have a great day. Stick