The Melancholy Muse of the Broken Pencil
I sit at my desk with a piece of dry wood,
Trying to write things that are misunderstood.
My brain is a constellation of static and glue,
Like a hamster in a tuxedo trying to chew.
I dip my sharp lead into rivers of ink,
But the paper is judging the way that I think.
Is it a metaphor, or just a bad smell?
My rhyme scheme is trapped in a deep, lonely well.
Oh, rhythm, you flee like a cat in a hat,
Leaving my stuck in a rhyme that is flat.
I procrastinate wildly by counting the dust,
My typewriter gears have all turned into rust.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
