Poem's Aren't Really My Thing

I sit here in this comfortable chair At my desk, hoping a delicious verse Will pop into my mind, ready to be cast Onto the paper that will eventually be Placed into my teacher’s hand. I’ve heard of poems about rainbows And springtime meadows But those ideas fail to thrill me. I’m not quite attracted to the thought of Ripping through a thesaurus to locate The correct adjective to match my somewhat intelligent thinking, Or rambling on about the meaning of life While my father lectures me on how My incorrect toasting of a bagel Could lead to my death. I am hopelessly distracted By the eternal blankness Of the white wall in front of me; It is much more intriguing than willing my mind to operate. But still, here I am, Vacantly wandering and sorting through My empty thoughts, their most interesting idea containing nothing But that of infinite boredom. I can only imagine the confused and entertained looks And comical and sarcastic comments I will receive from my peers When I read this composition aloud, And when they absorb my declaration of nothingness, I hope they can relate to The desperate pleads of my brain, Trying to focus on Whatever it is I’m supposed to be writing about.