Sorry if it is terrible - but it explains it'self.
I sit and wonder how such things,
As prose, and sonnets or musings,
Can be styled from simple thought,
Without learning or being taught.
In my mind are scenes of old,
Penned with words most un-bold.
On and on I write to no surprise,
That a verse of worth do not arise.
Alas I concede as the facts appear,
That writing is my greatest fear.

