I Cannot Write Poetry

I cannot write poetry, the words don’t come out right
And every time I try to think my paper ends up white
My words don’t rhyme, but turn to sludge
The wall inside my brain won’t budge
And my Eureka moment, has yet turned into light

I cannot write poetry, nor romance a flowered speech
Nor channel buried feelings and compare life to a beach
My quatrains suck, my haikus slop
And thousands beg me just to stop
That creative poetic phrasing remains outside my reach

I cannot write poetry, it’s known from land to land
But it would be great to be onstage where the authors stand
I wish my thoughts like theirs would linger
But I can’t even snap my fingers
And my scheme is so repulsive, ten governments had it banned

I cannot write poetry, it sends all my lovers away
They like me well enough, until a card on Valentine’s Day
Roses are red, violets are blue
What’s the god awful thing you’re trying to do?
I guess rough winds do shake, the darling buds of May

I cannot write poetry, though I truly wish I could
Tlot-tlot of the Highwayman, or diverging a yellow wood
Shakespeare weeps inside his grave
Whitman has begun to rave
And even Frost thinks my poems belong with firewood

I cannot write poetry, yes, it’s something I can’t do
Though I can build an airplane using only toothpicks and glue
I always win playing board games
And my dog doesn’t ever think me lame
And really what lasting effect, can poetry even produce?