Day before I thought I found my calling
With my first villanelle poem penned
So I sit today to write another
To this all my expertise I lend
And then I realize that no words flow
I write cruddy muck and backspace and delete
What I write sounds too awful to be read
And yet I feel no conceit
My poem is too bad to be called a poetry
And yet not so craptacular that it is good
It is poetic when it should not be
And yet too odious to be withstood
What does one do when she can’t write a good rhyme
And can’t write a bad rhyme either?
Does she write prose then?
Or from composing take a breather?
What can be worse than not being able to write;
not being able to write something that sucks enough?
Especially when you can’t even write things well
can life give you a better rebuff?
The villanelle poet relinquishes her throne
She decides to call it a day
and maybe it’s just in time too
because the fortnight ends tomorrow, they say!