Contemplating, i have been, for a long time,
Someday to have my very own rhyme.
Hoping against hope, i've tried to write
Poems about things dark and bright.
Failed, i have, miserably in my endeavours,
Realized, it's not me who the god of poetry favours.
Enamoured, i wrote about flowers, animals and bees,
Enchanted, i tried to describe beautiful trees.
But all my descriptions are prosaic and plain,
Of joys or angst, of what i feel or feign.
I know no Ulysses, Porphyria or her love,
Somehow my monologues aren't dramatic enough.
Aided in my strive, i may be, by solitude,
To give my rhyme meaning, to preclude the crude.
But, Alas! solitude is hard to come by,
I desire it much, but in vain i try.
This one from the heart, is to commemorate,
My sorry poesy, My unpoetic fate.
