I've never been great at poetry;
The process always fails for me.
While mister Poe and Shakespeare last,
My writing ends up in the trash.

Their writing style, lost with age,
Their wisdom hid in ev'ry page,
The glory given where it's due -
These are things I cannot do.

My writing's forced; theirs doth flow.
I say it blunt; they say it slow.
Those areas that bless and move
Are places where I can't improve.

So why, with my lack of skill,
Do I keep on writing still?
With such a hopeless case as this,
You'd think I would already quit!

There was a time when I did -
My desk was shut; my pen was hid.
Then something occurred to me
Which changed it all instantly.

If Dr. Seuss had Shakespeare tried,
And Mr. Poe glorified,
And given up in dismay,
We wouldn't have his books today.

So keep on writing how you do
With that style unique to you.
Put your mind into use
(You just might be another Seuss)!