If I start to write a poem, will I finish it this time Or will I give up midway through, because there aren't enough rhymes In this old dreadful, awful language born of brutal feudal swine Wearing wigs and pantaloons, and saying words like 'thee' and 'thine'?
If I have a hazy thought, will I succeed in making clear, That murky bit of intuition felt, or will it disappear, The minute I put ink to paper and begin to toy around With all the scattered bits of insight that implicitly abound?
If I find myself inspired all the sudden by a muse, Will she hastily retire before I can spread the news Of all her wondrous gifts to me, that I so luckily did capture In a transcendental state of exaltation, joy, and rapture?
If I have a vivid vision, flowing freer than the stream Of a river, clear as crystal, and as dazzling as a dream Will my will be of such power that I'll succeed to convey It, or just fall flat in defeat and then retreat into dismay?
If I see sumptuous fruits that hang atop the mighty tree That's down the road of human intellect and creativity Will my reach extend sufficiently to gather them and bring Them back into...into... oh, **** it! I can't think of anything.