I cannot think of what to write
A creative blank fills the endless pages of my mindless, self-absorbed, dribble
And it shows
My poetry is utter boredom to the poetical mind
It lacks originality and spark
However tedious my writing gets, I write more
For I think if I write more words of life, love and loss
I will become a better writer and hence a better poet
I don’t think it’s worked
This poem sounds like a piece of meat; slowly cooking under my Nana’s newly bought
George Foreman grill, you know the one that drains all the fat
Well that’s how I would explain this poem
It has exhausted all fat and therefore is Jenny Craig friendly
It has been grilled, poked and prodded and proven still raw
It has not taken to the test and therefore must end.
