Here I've stood for many years
Holding the same stance.
People pass me every day
And give me not a glance.

Sometimes they'll come visit me
And giggle as they talk.
Other days they color me
With rainbow-tinted chalk.

Several times I've listened in
On children as they played,
And many nights I've enjoyed a
Guitarist's serenade.

My frame is stuffed with memories
Of those I've seen glide by.
As seasons change I watch them
With a smile and a sigh.

The trouble with writing original poetry
Is that there are guidelines--
But you have no standards to go by
Except those inside your head.

Sometimes you have no inspiration
And just stare at empty white.
Other times your inspiration
Sounds silly once it's typed.

Once you start to write a poem
Your brain often shuts down
And distractions from the world around you
Keep your creativity blocked.

The trouble with writing original poetry
Is that there are so many variables.
The task that's hard is lining them up
And getting them to play nicely with one another.