Quiet mind, roaming round;
Empty page, fading frown.
A poet down, still blank-bound;
Her mind repressed, words not found.
She rhymed her tales,
Though meanings frail;
It's bound to fail,
Her stories stale.
Oh what a time, small poet girl,
You wrote too much,
Yet thoughts still swirl.
How about you try some less,
Maybe then you'd still impress.
©emily_cjw
E