The Composition

Biting the end of his pencil,
He waited for inspiration
to come.
It didn’t.
So he looked out of the window,
where it was raining.
He watched two raindrops
race down the pane.
Then he watched two more
do the same.
That would make a good photo,
he thought.
But I’m here to write a poem,
not watch rain.
He picked up a magazine,
looking for a photo
to give him the inspiration
for the ideas he sought.
He came across a photo
of a model.
‘That woman is beautiful’,
he thought.
‘I hope my poem will be as beautiful.’
The magazine bored him.
He put on some African music,
so he could feel the vibes
and be inspired by the
voices of the tribes.
But he wasn’t.
He was just saddened.
Although he could’t
understand the words
the songs were sad.
He turned the music off,
angry now.
He wanted to write
something happy,
not sad.
He picked up his pencil,
a second time.
Something traditional?;
In stanzas, in rhyme?
What topic shall I write about?
What is left to be said?
Only what people fear,
only hat they dread?
He couldn’t decide.
He wanted to write a poem,
that lived and breathed,
that smiled and cried.
His pencil was worn
before he begun,
but it was good enough
for what had to be done.
He was a one-off poet.
It wouldn’t be
like a one night stand,
but something
mighty and grand.
He decided to write about
how hard it is to
write a poem.
He wondered if anyone
would read it.
Would it be worth
writing a piece?
He decided no.
Instead he went
walking in the rain,
where the storm was unleashed.


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