A pome what I rote.

I wanted to write

so I'd sit up at night.

Pen at the ready,

light burning steady

- and I'd wait.

Hoping for inspiration

Redoubling concentration,

staring at the paper white

nerves twitching,tension tight

- and I'd wait.

The hour would grow late

with me in breathless state.

I wanted to astound,

by the Literati to be crowned

- and I'd wait.

I'd dream of characters fictionary

as I leaned upon my dictionary.

But inspiration never came.

I never made my claim to fame

- but still I wait.