Lousy bad poetry is often my genre
For words often fight with me
I read my best works quite often
And wonder where did I go wrong?
That magnificent vocab still incite me
And I wonder how can I write like this
But when I seek to pen my thoughts
All that flows out is insane trappings.
I am glad at inspirations I find
Forced outflow of words they look
But they are my heart’s manifestations
And make me attempt to fulfill dreams.
I still have goals that reach the sky
Of penning the masterpiece never read
For literature is what has shaped me
In it I found first meaning of passion.
I now scribbles thoughts out more often
Senseless they maybe, but attempts they are
After long, I do have poetic notes everywhere
Desire I still, they weave magic one day.
Written for the OctPoWriMo writing prompt Day 18: And the Poetry Runs Through it