It's true I am pathatic
I am cursed for the worst
Of writing again and again
Nothing but the
Most horrible verse
No stanzas or prose
Of worth or pride
No willing words
Written in my hand
May ever shine
Oh I'm doomed
With no metaphors
Or scale
Again and again
To fail and fail  
And my flesh and
My bones
Rejected my both
Monster and worm
I was scratched
By the shadow
Of the moon
Long ago
I read every word
And remembered
Every line
Not an image
Within I could ever
Forget
And like the werewolf
Who howls
I picked up a pen
And I failed
And failed
As I tried to
Write about love
And the moon
I haven't gotten
Any better
I fear it's much worse
I have the curse
Of writting
Nothing but
The most horrible verse