I wander a dry desert of blank pages,
Where wonderful ideas seem never quite right.
Just putting the pen to paper takes ages.
All I desire from my heart is to write.

Me thinks I should write a best selling novel,
Maybe complete some short stories at first.
Perhaps I should find the best agent and grovel,
My brain’s tired now; this story’s the worst.

Marvelous thoughts feed from fingers to screen,
And soon I’ll have tall tales in folders to share.
On lonely evenings I may often be seen,
Swapping ideas with good friends who care.

Oh, will you look at this poor manuscript,
Please tell me what’s wrong and what’s right with it?

“You could write some verse,” suggested my friend.
In vain I complained of this I knew naught.
“I have a good book I’d be happy to lend,
Putting feelings in rhyme is easily taught.”

I googled for suitable poetry styles,
And on line found much more than expected.
The list which resulted I measured in miles,
I closed eyes and one blindly selected.

An English sonnet on my screen I saw,
So I picked up the pen and I started.
I hope once written my poor poem won’t bore,
For within it are fond dreams imparted.

Have you seen the poems in my portfolio?
Into the company of dead poets I go!

Written in the form of an English Sonnet, ie three quatrains and a couplet with the rhyming scheme abab cdcd efef gg and written in pentametre.