The Repeated Process of an Inadequate Writer

My fingers are itching

to pick up a pen and start writing;

my heart is jumping

at the thought of my favorite activity;

my brain is yearning

to pour all of my thoughts out

in lines of poetry

with metaphors, similes, hyperboles,

figurative language of all kinds,

imagery, rhyme scheme, and everything else.

But my hand scatters across the page,

word after word appearing on the lines

only to be erased one at a time.

So I sit, playing with my pencil,

a thousand thoughts in my head

having no way to come out right.

My fingers are shaking,

my brain is tired,

and my heart's given up.

There will be no progress today —

maybe tomorrow.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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