Sparkatale

Write a poem, they say,

like it's easy to do.

Thoughts lead me astray,

… I'm stuck.

 

So I sit at my desk,

my pencil I bite.

I'm thinking! I'm thinking!

Argh, what do I write!

 

Conventions, techniques,

and all this and that.

These things I don't know,

thoughts bounce to and fro.

 

Now where do I start?

With a cascade of techniques.

To turn words into art,

I will be here for weeks!

 

I don't get similes,

like some strange foreign language.

And metaphors stop me,

at the end of a drawbridge.

 

The word onomatopoeia,

crashes and bangs at some stage.

And I think enjambment falls

off the lines of the page.

 

Alliteration just turmoils,

terribly a tad.

And assonance just makes me,

so mad that it's sad.

 

I could always try free verse,

so it won't have to rhyme.

I can write what I want,

and at any time. Oh wait!

 

I've got a real problem,

jotting down my excuses.

I can't write a poem!

Oh…