To be tame, is so lame, just wondering about the time.
No interest in task, not daring to ask, just sat and got lost in rhyme.
I cannot be Shakespeare; I would simply appear as a fool.
I cannot write sonnets, why try? I’d rather not be cruel.
There shall be talk, when people gawk, at my mistakes.
I cannot tell the difference between an allegory or an anecdote,
Nor the the meaning of a story, that is my asymptote.
I cannot avoid the run-on sentences in my mind, I am a traffic jam
of derailed trains of thought.
I have fruitless trees as my imagination and desert plains as humour.
My brain is simply a rumour, the faint echo of an idea that used to grow.
But it is now a withered plant that is desperately seeking sunlight.
In short, I do not know what to write.
I’m not a poet, and I know it.
Not a good comedian either.