A Poet's Despair

[Spikerider]

A Poet's Despair

I sit thinking tucked into my nest.
Then the words do swiftly come.
Flying by way to fast for review.
My mind's all a flutter;
I must repeat & utter,
Where is my ink?
Where is my quill?
Where is my parchment?
I must rush before I forget.
Tension rare, for this chore I do fret.
Good grief, my mind was elsewhere!
Just in the nick of time, just barely.
My writing implements I have found!
Now, what was that first good line?
I start to pen a flock of words so fine.
Out of the blue a poem is skillfully landing.
I am pleased with what is hitting my page.
Usually my poems are just barnyard droppings.
Creation is hatching phrases to rhyme.
Accuracy must rule for a word lost a crime.
Thoughts speeds exceeds my hand so slow.
Oh, this poultry amount of stanzas
laid before me, need some fluffing up.
These rhythmic lines, the poem's seed.
Lost in the confusion foul it is indeed.
Within flying verses & words a rhyming
I got winged upside my daft old head.
This poor old poet once so cocky,
but time long has made me a nincompoop,
My poem flew from my brain, this drafty coop.