I find myself unable
To pen a decent line
The words they come
But disappear
Before I make them mine
Unfinished beginnings
Are now quite abundant
A phrase I choose
Will soon become
Invariably redundant
The rhyming scheme I follow
Does not stick to my norm
I would prefer
A b c b, but now
That aint the form
And so a traitor to the art
Bows her head in shame
And writes instead
Of lost talent
That she once used to claim
