There are times I sit with pen in hand,
staring into the blank heart of the unmarked page,
as if it were a pond and I—a boy with no fish to show.

Words won’t come, as stubborn as a mule,
having wandered off to some far corner of the farm.
I am left with the rustle of the wind,
the idle chatter of the keyboard ticking time away.

Yes, in an old-world style I toy with rhymes,
abab or sometimes sonnet-like, an antique practice.
I count on fingers, aloud, like a child lost in his first arithmetic,
a bit of drama to lend the stage some mystique.

I’m not here to boast, certainly not to preen.
Go on, deliver your critique; let it fall where it may.
Criticism slides right off this waterproof coat.

But these scribbles, these lines—
they prop me up, a wooden cane for the mind.
They are the spinning of dreams into a kind of silk thread,
each word an attempt to touch, to feel,
each period a small stop sign, halting the flow.

I confess a simple truth, no silver tongue is mine.
I am the broken typewriter, keys jammed mid-sentence.
I am the stuttering poet, words spilled in disarray.

Yet, O Reader, you with your sharpened gaze,
peruse these lines where effort outweighs talent.
See this dyslexic jester juggling letters,
more for his own amusement than the court's adoration.

And so, I concede defeat, the white flag raised.
This canvas remains blank, the brushes dry.
After all, the stars remain untouched by my reach—
the Bard's crown resting on another’s head.