A story, a tale,

A lyrrical sale,

Of ideas spun in such a way

That people read them everyday.

I think, I ponder,

I begin to wonder,

Just what makes for good reading?

Romance, or fighting, or doom impeding?

A pencil, a pen,

A fine-pointed crayon,

Or simply a computer screen

Into which I'll type my scene.

Fingers twitch, wrist straightens,

My mind's thought soon hastens,

For what shall I write for this assignment?

An essay, a story, a detailed statement?

A poem! In rhyme,

And just in time,

I get my ideas gathered at last,

My internal struggle beggining to pass.

And yet, I still need.....

A title, a topic,

For my little sonnet,

So I look around for an inspiration,

But nothing I see stops my desperation.

A drop, of sweat,

Trickles down my head

And as I lose faith in all my writing,

I simply can't see why I keep on trying.

A glance, a look,

At a poetry book,

And I suddenly see what the topic shall be,

So it should be written quite quickly.

Now I leave the original way,

For, to end this poem, I now must say

That the only topic of this writing

Was to end this annoying rhyming...

This poem, this tale,

Of this female,

And her pitiful attempt at a poem

Shall simply be called; Title unknown.