"Young in years and old in hours,"
Pressed to pen poetic powers.
Though often lacking what I need,
To reap the rarely ripened read.

The rhythm falters far too fast,
The rhymes are vain and veer so vast.
That all is lost and left to lie.
Prevailing poets pass me by.

I twist, I turn, I toss all night.
My wrist, it burns, from all I write.
My quest to quill the very best,
And place asunder all the rest.

I hardly ever hit the mark,
Unleashing arrows in the dark.
With poisoned tips they pierce my soul,
But missing my initial goal.

The human heart, my target set,
I've failed, but haven't finished yet.
My words of wisdom will ignite.
With poisoned arrow's final flight.

For now, I'll rest my weary eyes,
Await my fated forced demise.
And fiercely face this fight within,
Till the maddened poet strikes again.