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.