The Process

I stare at the cursor on my computer screen,

I’m trying to be deep.

I always think my poems sound horrible,

So cheesy, so cheap.

I’m trying to be inspired,

by a white painted wall.

It’s a wonder that I even

can find words to write at all.

Then I get the idea

to write about life

about passion and wonder,

and limitless strife.

So I write a title,

and a line or two,

then I stare at the screen,

Now what do I do?

Five minutes in,

I decide to give up,

Outside i hear,

the slamming door of a truck.

Again I am inspired,

to look deep inside,

I’m trying to find the place,

where all my good ideas hide.

Again I find a title

Write lines, two, three

then I run a blank

why must the words taunt me?

I take a few deep breaths,

And try to calm down,

I decide I’l write a story,

about some far away town,

I type a few sentences,

I read them over,

I’ve written about some girl,

who finds a four-leafed clover.

And suddenly then, my mind gets a hit,

I’ll write about nature,

because nature poems are legit.

So I forget about clover girl,

Green clover, grey skies,

oh yeah, I forgot,

that was the color of her eyes.

A new page is open,

I stare at the screen,

I can’t even get a title,

I think words are mean.

I stare a my clock,

three hours have passed,

I just cannot believe,

time has escaped me so fast

I’m not upset 

that I’ve let the blank page win,

Because I know that tomorrow,

I’ll start the process again.