by Amanda DeLalla
Poems are pleasantly strange things
Like daffodil gardens and emerald rings
1000 words, 100 rhymes
I think poetry is just fine.
There’s just one problem, don’t you see?
A poem will never come to me.
I’m at my desk, pen in hand
But all the words remain buried in the sand.
Poems are like a starry night
Lovely, but creating one is an impossible plight
The music never reaches my ears.
The door won’t open for another 10 years!
Poems can be good as glory.
But nonetheless, this is my story.
After thinking awhile, here is my bid…
I cannot write a poem- oh wait, I just did!