I Fucked up a poem

I could never really write poetry
I lacked the commitment
I had no pen or pencil
To describe the things I felt

I didn't have the inspiration
for the creation
That would be judged by people that be
To be something of greater quality

I could never really write poetry
My mind couldn't work the way I wanted it to
The ideas in my head were too slim or fat
And they refused to cooperate and compromise when I wrote them

I just didn't have the making
To make something worth taking
Now I have to deal with facing
All the lines I have to be erasing




The pen and pencil flew across the room
Papers strewn in a pile
I ran to the door and back to my chair
I wanted to make something worthwhile

...I picked up the pen and the pencil too
All the time thinking I could never write poetry
I wrote a poem and it sounded ... good
I wrote it about everything

I wrote about food
I wrote about mood
repitition and politics

I wrote about life
I wrote about strife
omition and lovelessness

This poem went a little bit further
Than it's previous brothers and sisters
This poem it proved to the others
That I was more than just some mister

Niceguy that they could walk all over and leave in the dust
That I was one who would write and endure the rusty
Marks left on the desk upon which I write
That I leave my lamp on and ponder through the night

This empty process which we find so stimulating
With all the writers I end up emulating
Changing format, style, font
Writing controversy on will and wont

This is the peom that I wrote that day
I ended up finding another way
To fix what I fucked up as soon as I started
And I wrote this poem that's never been charted