Perched into the cushioned wooden chair,
Breathing the same days old air.
Stacks of paper filled with her oeuvre,
Linger did she on her daily groove!
Before her rested many an inked leaf,
Disarrayed and disordered, to state in brief.
Scattered lines of poetry,
Bearing not a skosh of symmetry.
How much she did ever yearn,
For a poem unspurn.
Striked an idea, poetic, none!
Papers, white for hours – no fun.
Threw her work off the table,
And her pen, the fable;
Effusing into air, her left grim hope.
Mind still on the poem? Of course nope!
Desolated, she sat with her head rested back,
Dubious if she possessed any poetic knack.
In her heart and mind, copious mayhem.
Lord let this poor girl pen a poem!