Have you ever experienced the urge
To create a poetic, titanic, splurge
Of emotion and passion
Of great clarity
That moves all your readers
And speaks to the soul.

But then you set paper to pen
(Or these days your laptop opens)
And instead of a torrent
A trickle comes forth
Your words remain twisted
Your rhyming is poor.
You’re stranded, adrift and alone
Trying to find that elusive new poem.

Do you want my advice?
Make a bold if strange choice
Accept your clear fate and
Give up, it’s no Wasteland
Admit you can’t hack it
However you stack it
And write about your unique voice.

I did. You like?
I do and I might
Have said more than if I’d writ a tome
But now it is late
And whatever the state
Of this poem
It’s time to go home.



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