My Abysmal Poetry

I’m ashamed to admit: my poetry bites dust
Though words are potent, mine are…full of rust?
See? Even rhyming is a great chore, like…Wanderlust?
Ugh! I just find it hard to pen poems that aren’t a bust!

Perhaps it was genetics…maybe I was born this way
Stuck with words allotropic: always rigid, never sway
If I could go back, return to that day
Maybe birth could yield answers to this area coloured grey.

Arrgh! I don’t know why my poems are no good!
Maybe engineers were meant to seek a different livelihood
But oh! To lift souls to ecstasy, as poetry should
Was it blashemy to think I, even I, could?

How do they do it? I analyse and decode
Could this poetry thing have a formula, with median and mode?
But the masters, like nature, never reveal their code
Enjoy our works, they say, but let us handle the load.

But I want to bear this weight! Can’t they see?!
I want my words to stir love, glee, especially reverie
Since you won’t give me cheats, denying my plea
I’m determined now: a good poem beckons, by and for me.

It’s so hard! Maybe English is to blame sha…
Not being my mother tongue, I’ll try another one…aha!
Sugbon, mo ko ni Yoruba…ko si da!
J’ai essayé d’écrire en français…il va pas!

No good rubbish! I declare. The crushing futility…
I close MS-Word in defeat: another fail, no victory
For anytime I try with eager hands on qwerty
All I always end up with…is abysmal poetry.

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