Poem About A Poem I Wrote

So now I sit here down to write some words
in caveman speak cause its more fun to do.
But should you sit to write a real good verse?
Lay down to feel the words with secret thought?

Perhaps you stand and spew a fluid phrase
with random rhymes that sparkle through the haze;
a coffee house poet living his days
professed to write a line in many ways…

Or do you not cause you’re like me too much;
who struggles to make pentameter flow.
I get verses in my head all the time
but never are around to write them down.
A tragic flaw in the four lines of form
but need to say I wish I wrote them down.

One called Solitude when I was driving
and another to the beat of a good song.
I could have put a meaning behind this
oh but, alas, it would have been shallow.

Then I thought hey! Write a poem about
writing a poem that you write for school.
You could sit and maybe it would be good.
Blank verse could count as a form that you used.

Easy, I say, meter is not too hard.
And if you rhyme, the poem won’t be marred.
But blank verse don’t rhyme said I to myself
and figured it wouldn’t matter too much.

Where ‘ere went the words of great poets past
that made each line flow as a babbling brook
and produced such wonderful images
with tools which were just marks upon a page?
The blind artists who used their pens and minds
to scratch their way into our hard-bound books;
where ‘ere did they go to? Ears wait for them.
Not like they would for me who can’t write crap.

Bonne chance my small artwork which sits right here.
Above, below this line which means nothing.
If you make it farther than teacher’s desk
may hell freeze over but I’m proud of you.

The End.