Writing a poem every day,
It often takes away from play.
One must put the mind in a place
And find that elusive poet face.
Some days what comes is only tripe,
Plain and hackneyed, no longer ripe.
Some days one's work shines like brass
Even if it only talks of grass.
Writing like this makes one think deep
It makes beauty stand out and further seep.
One feels all beauty as an emotion
Even through life's noisy commotion,
But it makes one truth very real:
Realizing the days when One nothing really feels.
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