Awful is the word for it.

The sky is blue,
The sunset is pink,
When I write poetry,
It really stinks.

I try as hard as anyone can,
But I use a pencil instead of a pen,
To have an eraser is nothing short of joy,
To destroy the passages that no one would enjoy.

To think as a kid a poem I did write,
For my summer camp that everyone liked,
They put it to music--Old Langs Syne,
And sang it to me in the proper rhyme.

I should have ended this long ago,
But at least it's rhyming so on I go,
But I think I'll end now while I'm ahead,
Before they stone me and leave me for dead.