Trying To Write

I’m trying to write,
but nothing is there.
It’s like flying a kite
where there’s not any air.

I first tried a poem,
but that didn’t work.
The words made me feel
like an overgrown berk.

I found a nice picture
of a path and a tree.
And wrote about a man
who was talking to me.

It seemed really awkward,
the man and the tree.
What was he doing there?
Just waiting for me?

Sometimes my stories
don’t make any sense.
But I keep trying.
I must be quite dense.

I had another picture
of colorful stones.
I thought that they might be
pet rocks seeking homes.

These ideas are way out,
way out in the blue.
It doesn’t give credit
to the reader. That’s you.

Sometimes when I think
it’s a good time to write,
I find I’m mistaken.
I’m tired. Good night!

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