It isn't always hard to lift the pen
And set the nub down to an empty leaf.
It can, however, be a challenge when
The words begin to come to keep them brief.

Sometimes one's fingers fly across the keys,
Cascading words onto an empty screen;
But though the measured lines pour forth with ease
They don't convey precisely what you mean.

You don't know how the poets that you read
With deftest grace forge art from written word
And all the while manage to succeed
At crafting from the dross ideas unheard

You try to fit your thoughts onto the sheet;
Accommodate both sentiment and verse;
All efforts fail- the work feels incomplete,
And further moil just makes it that much worse.

For now you set aside attempts at Rhyme,
And you're like, "Fuck this, I'll stick to prose."