Writing a poem oft falls flat
Like a balloon at the claw of a cat.
Ideas lapse, fade and fumble.
I find myself start to mumble about all that.
Coalescing schemes might bear fruit
If I can force them like a brute.
Interrupted, I might stumble.
Irritated, I might mumble, “Where is the root?”
A branching tree of nouns and verbs.
My limp enthusiasm curbs.
The verse again fails to appear,
My washed brain unable to steer the poet blurbs.
My wordy tree branch starts to crack;
Inspiration sky fades to black.
A unrhyming weight buries me
Beneath the unpoetic tree dying out back.