Sour Grapes

When thoughts like lightning streak across my mind In brilliant flashes of the clearest hues  If turning them to words on page I find My efforts and advances are refused I oft will turn my ire towards the page Until the subject on which words won't form Dies crumpled in a ball of poet's rage With judgement as capricious as a storm. Yet in the calm that comes when storms have passed As daylight drys the anger from my eyes I see the mound of paper there amassed. With clarity -- of sorts -- I realize The vision that I first thought so sublime Was never worthy of such skill as mine. 8.16.18 Contest:Sour Grapes Syllable count checked on howmanysyllables.com (Although it is incorrectly counting "poet's" as 1 syllable)