The writer begins a poem, pained.
For the rhymes are contrived,
The tone is strained.
With every letter crammed into place,
The style fluctuates at an erratic pace.
With every word grows more despair,
He cannot convey what he wishes to share.
The rhythm breaks in an uneven beat
And the poet begins to accepts his defeat.
His mind too colourful to fit on a page,
His fists curl with the pent-up rage,
Of having ideas but no means to convey
The words just won't come, to his utter dismay.
The structure monotonous, vapid and bland,
The poet feels inept, and he can't understand,
How these indentations made with ink
Could urge him to cry, laugh, smile and to think.
He raises his palm to his furrowed brow
And sighs, for he knows he has lost now.
He folds the page into an aeroplane
And sets his mind to fly again.
by Esther Laird (13)
Independent Entry, Bath
Competition - The Poetry Trials
Copyright remains with the author.