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 —