I stare at the four letter word,
Urging my pen to move forward,
‘Poeming’ – isn’t it what I do?
Why is there so much ado?
When I sit poring, an hour later,
My palms create a paper crater,
Words are scribbled and crossed,
The clichéd paper balled and tossed.
Just another day, in poetry-land,
Where one and all try their hand,
Some days bring forth masterpieces,
Other days, one is left picking up pieces.
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