Notes About The Poem
when words wouldn't come and neither did a muse
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The Poem I Tried to Write
I sat with pen, with page snow-white,
to sculpt a verse, to birth some light—
but all my thoughts just slipped away
like shy young clouds who won’t stay.
No poet’s muse knocked at my door,
no thunder-voice, no metaphor.
My words were socks without their pairs,
just stumbling down unwritten stairs.
My rhymes were cracked, my rhythm weak,
I tried to write, but couldn’t speak—
for every phrase that dared to bloom
got lost and left the quiet room.
I rummaged through my mind’s old shelf,
but found no magic—just myself.
No dazzling terms, no lofty art,
just beating pulse and stubborn heart.
So I wrote not with golden fire,
nor borrowed lines from grander lyres,
but stitched each verse from threadbare thought,
and hoped it showed the care I brought.
A lack of words is still a start—
the ink runs best from honest heart.
And though no muse stood near to guide,
I found my poem—tucked inside.
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