I relax by reading the old poets of 'yore
Sit, wonder and revel in gossamer lore
Amazed, I turn to myself and I say,
"Well, I'll write poetry too someday"
I can scribble a few lines to thee
I can steal a word or two or three
Yet it won't really matter
This inane lyrical chatter...
While their words pierce your inner soul
Mine flutter off the page, never taking a toll
-Never even breaking the skin

I've read Poe and been enchanted by Frost
Yet any inspiration has forever been lost
The futility of this task I'll never achieve
The voicing of emotions I think I perceive
The exasperation of it all has clearly taken flight
But it'll never have meaning, no matter what I write