The assignment scribbled on the board
seemed to be laughing at me,
as I read with growing horror:
one page of rhyming poetry.
I told them I couldn't write a poem,
but they were disbelieving.
I guess this travesty will show them
that I was not deceiving.
On my desk sits an eraser
almost rubbed out of existence.
A mountain of crumpled up paper
is all I have to show for my persistence.
This poem cannot be found;
it runs away from me.
I tackle it to the ground
but it squirms just out of reach.
I try to sculpt the words
into something meaningful,
but the mere effort hurts,
and the page is not yet full.
Although I persevere and try,
this poem's not what I want it to be.
I lay my head down and cry-
I just can't write poetry.
