Sometimes, writing a poem seems fairly easy
Everything just clicks together
You can see something worthwhile reading
With each, little keystroke
Or jot of the pen
So you write away feverishly and freely
And as if your hands were possessed
By Shakespeare himself
You have little desire to stop a good thing

Sometimes, writing a poem is fantastically frustrating
You work at it and work at it
Go over it and over it and over it - again and again
The lumps and the kinks and the lack of quality
Searching hard for that Wow factor
But it is just pretty much off center no matter what you do
And you feel so inadequate to fix it up right
So you either settle for it being less than hoped for
Or trash it in absolute surrender
Obliterating the work for good

Sometimes, I write
And I sit back with a sense of accomplishment and pride
Other times, I write
And I want to bang my head
On the most convenient, hard surface I can find
Preferably one with jarring pain
For the inspiration for good writing is rather weak and blah
Highly disappointing and distressing
As my literary brain feels out of order
The struggle to scribble out an idea in my head
Just won't quite translate well onto paper

For, I guess, such is the life of a writer
I fear my glory days of writing poems are over
That the best of my abilities are far behind me
And my story writing will soon grow redundant
Like yesterday's newspaper
But if I have surprised myself before
And the winding road of life and the ticking away of time
Manage to provide me food for thought
I may eventually encounter fresh, new inspiration
My talent not used up after all
Can I allow myself that hope?

For such a life is a writer


P.S.  
For such is life.........period