Tick, tock, tick, tock,
The clock sings its merry song.
Oblivious to its notes,
I’m lost in a world of my own.
Sitting at my desk,
Fiddling with paper and pen,
I’m faced with a task I often dread -
I am trying to write a poem.
Staring blankly at the ceiling,
At intervals, face buried in hands and thinking,
It’s difficult to accept that I am devoid of feeling,
But the truth remains ever so glaring:
Words come easy to some,
To others they do not.
For many, a breath of inspiration,
For a few like me, hours of perspiration.
Two hours pass by,
The scrawling on paper nothing to go by,
You would think I should be engaged in something more ‘worthwhile’,
Alas, I have committed myself and so I must write.
Finally comes the sigh of relief,
The much anticipated moment of release;
I lean back in my chair with ease,
And behold with joy the work that makes me fulfilled.
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