Each one when new was gleaming white,
Unstained and fresh for what I'd write.
And so I wrote, as if I might
Inspire the world in Heaven's sight.
But Heaven noticed not at all
And not a soul did I enthrall,
So I remained alone and small
Until I heard another call.
A poet's dream, she seemed to me,
And I could write unceasingly
With methaphor and simile
That she would hear as melody.
The pages bright I would adorn
Were blackened by my lover's scorn.
My pen became a rose's thorn
That pricked my pride and left it torn.
And so, I lost my self-esteem
And wasted paper by the ream,
Awake and in my every dream,
Just searching for that perfect theme.
The answer came one summer day
As I passed by a child at play.
Her rhymes were wrong, her words astray,
And so I paused upon my way.
"Sweet mercy, child, your rhyme's askew,
And you've messy lines I can't construe ."
"Perhaps," she said with words so few,
"I strive to please myself, not you."