#OctPoWriMo 16

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.

Form: Florette

#OctPoWriMo 2-The Room

Entering this room I always cringe.
I keep my stance upon the fringe.
Enduring countless minutes wasted,
Roasting in dread like a turkey basted

Nonsense persists when mouths hinge wide.
The speaker lacks a sense of pride.
Petty bickering wrongly ensues;
My mind clouds with a shade of blues.

My brain shuts down, the words not heard.
I’d rather watch that tiny bird
Across the street, up in the tree.
Oh, how I wish that could be me!

Rolling my eyes, I a wish I make,
“Shut the hell up for goodness sake!”