Frustrated

Geez, I got more of a poem STRUGGLING with the bad poem than I got doing the activity that was supposed to inspire me.  I am so frustrated with  myself!

No More!
Those artists that I often see
in flickering images on TV
reach out their hands and know the way
the brush should touch the scene

But me, I play with all these words
confused with punctuation marks
and struggle with the rhythm
to create a tepid dream

The artist lifts his knowing hand
and with an instinct all his own
he swirls his wrist to place a color
on a blotch of green

And suddenly, you gasp to see
the glinting sun against a tree
but that’s not how it works with me
my mind is not that keen!

I hate to be inadequate
I hate to feel so average
I hate the way I struggle
for a little bit of flair.

And where’s that burning brilliance
Ah, the talent of the genius
Where’s my portion?
Where’s my poem?
How I wish I didn’t care!