Bernard Shaw - Poetry.

Cool air from the electric fan,

perspiration running down my brow.

I try to write poetry the best I can,

but somehow I do not know how.

Angels and Fairies come into my brain,

I find myself grasping at straws,

Poetry eludes me again and again,

my life seems full of flaws.

The pen in my hand is heavy with ink,

inspiration comes not to my mind.

I try very hard to think,

but destiny is not too kind.

So I will put my pen away,

no poetry is very frustrating.

Tomorrow words will come my way,

which to me is very exhilarating.

Bernard Shaw

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poetry-12/