For months and months I've tried to rhyme,
As I sit here and wonder if it's even worth my time.
And as an idea begins to form in my head,
The light bulb goes out and then it's dead.
The trash is filled with crumpled paper of sorts,
I think might have even written a poem about warts.
As I sit here with pencil in hand,
I eat some chips that are quite bland.
Maybe I'll write a poem about Doritos,
Or maybe a hate note to mosquitoes.
It really doesn't matter I guess.
Maybe this poem put me to the test.
