Contested Meta Poem

In front of a blank page, I sit with my pen, Writing a poem for a contest again. With thoughts in a tangle, I ponder and fret, “What metaphor fits?” but none come to me yet. I gaze at my cat, dear Sami by name, Her eyes hold a mystery, yet nothing to claim. “Could she be my muse?” I wonder aloud, But my page remains blank as a lion is proud. My room is disheveled, my thoughts just the same. Chaos surrounds me, and I feel such shame. The words that I seek, they elude my grasp, In the silence, I hear my own desperate gasp. Perhaps this contest is not meant for me, I’m tangled in words that I struggle to see. But here with my pen and my faithful cat's stare, I’ll find my own way, through this poet’s despair. I write of this struggle, this quest for a line, In hopes that my efforts will somehow align. My poetry’s nothing if perfection’s my goal Here I am flawed with a true poet’s soul.