With my pen in my hand,
I glare at the page.
“Why won’t the words come?”
I rant and I rave.
When I do other things,
Thoughts flow in by the score.
But when I pick up a pen,
They flee out the door.
And the ideas I grab
Are so thin and so weak,
Instead of those bold thoughts
I was trying to seek?
All my bright dreams
So quickly disperse,
And I’m stuck with this poem,
For better or verse.
Cute and pithy. I enjoyed it quite a bit.
Barb
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Thanks, Barb. I’m glad you liked it. 🙂
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You’re welcome. 🙂
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Ha! This is me all the time. Great poem!
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