Poetry

You know,
I tried
to throw
away
my tired
words and couldn’t.
Shouldn’t
we be able
to write
without
pondering
what’s right —
the next phrase?
Let me just raze
this page
and begin
anew;
No battling my rage
at having no clue
how to create
a poem that’s great,
without
sounding inane
and having to strain
to rhyme this word or that
harmonize a chord or pat
some ill-sounding phrase
into place in this line
or the next.
Oh, I feel hexed
or am I just crazed?
How did the old poets
like Dickinson and Poe
accomplish this
AND
get praised
for what can only be,
for me,
woe
to know
how low
I sink
to summon
energy
for this
feat
in ink
of what
they’ve done
that
I wish
to repeat?