Poetry, a never-ending struggle at night
As I sit in front of my paper
And wait for ideas to take flight

Once again, I toss a crumpled paper ball
Into the filled trash bin, but again, it falls
Shot down to the ground
As if thrown by a failed basketball star

I feel words at the tip of my lip
Stuttering to exit my mouth
Grabbing the paper with pencil in hand
I prepare for my ideas to enter the land

When the gateway of my thoughts opens at last
A rampage of phrases begin to fly out too fast
A few flop to my page like dead flies
But many leave without any ties

Soon, my hand drops to a stop and I see
A broken symphony screeching songs of misery
The rhymes all jumbled into a huge cacophony
Metaphors and similes wail like banshees

After multiple drafts, a final copy arrives
And once I submit it, I feel more alive
Freed from poetry, my pen is locked away
As I celebrate the drought of writing for the day

But somehow an urge to write will suddenly arise
Once I hear poems that my peers had comprised
Pencils spill out in a flurry as I open my case
And scribble down ideas while making much haste

I listen to their work with little notes in my mind
Poems polished for hours and carefully refined
Their sentences sugarcoated with phrases so sweet
If it were a writing contest, I would admit defeat

Their words form a lullaby, smooth and soothing to me
Any hatred and grudges for poetry now set free
After class, I pick up my pen and attempt to start again
But unfortunately, my poetry cycle seems to never end

Poetry, so lovely to my ears, so loathsome to my pen