The Ordeal Of A Young Poet

When it comes to writing, I am so slow
That a snail is better in speed than I am
I spend all the day struggling.
Rolling and strolling over the first line

I know what to write but how to start
A path so narrow, so narrow
That I sometimes do not feel like following.
Dragging and nagging all the way from the start.

And when I manage to put down my thought
Just as it begins to flow
Like a sap from a slit tree in the winter.
Dropping and dripping all the way to the end.

You can pick from the first statement
Because it is always so shallow
But I have decided to keep at it
Growing and flowing like the Amazon River