I’ve searched my thesaurus,
Hit the rhyming web sites too,
In this my muse is not a plus --
She won’t tell me what to do.

There must be another way,
A fresh phrase to explain,
Some better method to convey,
Instead of this crap so mundane.

“Love hurts” has been said --
“How do I love thee” repeated --
The lack of words fill me with dread,
And my poem sits … uncompleted.

Shall we gather ‘round a table,
Hold hands, in a séance-like way,
Calling on the greats to enable
Us all to write -- sans cliché.

Oh, Will, won’t you lead the way
With your double-entendre and wit;
Shall I compare you to a summer’s day
For my odes to love aren’t worth spit.

Dear Emily of Amhurst, please confide
How you are able to concisely tell
Of your time in death’s carriage ride
No one else does it as well.

T.S., we are once again at war,
The lessons have not been learned;
Your words would strike at the very core
Of poets who have been spurned.

Sweet Miss Elizabeth, give me words of love,
Please fashion into your gentle speech
Phrases so apt, they fit like a glove
But remain, alas, just out of my reach.

It would be such fun to write
As those poets who have composed
The poems I have learned to recite
And whose talent is unopposed.

But, for now I simply sit and wait
For my muse to provide the gift
Of words to express and create --
Hey, all I get is short shrift!