Today the poem will be weak,
There isn’t much to say,
Apart from, “I have run right out of steam.”
The disappearance of my mind
Has left my inner self quite blind:
He cannot see what’s real and what’s a dream.
But onward I will persevere,
With these faint, airy thoughts
(One has to make an effort on such days).
The lines are varied in their length,
Which gives the thing a certain strength;
The rhyme scheme’s sound, though doesn’t much amaze.
Some days one can’t be arsed to write,
Some days the words won’t stop,
Some days one has to force the lines to breathe.
So even when the poem’s tat,
You’ll edit ‘til you’re certain that
The poem’s done, and then you’re free to leave.