Writing Poetry

Everyone's writing poetry these days.

But no matter how much out of windows I gaze,
Or into the depths of my coffee I peer.
Zilch....nothing. No 'moonlit skies' nor any 'Christmas cheer'.

Dejected...angry I head up to bed,
Hoping the morning dew drop'll moisten my big fat excuse for a head.
But to no avail as even in bright daylight,
My mind shows its incapacity of taking flight.

Refusing to let my will waver,
Muttering to the self' "Better late than never."
I descend into the park for a stroll,
My determination now harder than coal.

I wonder if I should write about the chirping of the birds,
Or how about the curdling of milk into curd?
Maybe about the wind that flows through trees
And creates gentle ripples on the surface of the sea.

Should my poem be about the neighbour's little tyke
The rascal with a smile so charming that one can't help but like?
I could also write about the fragrant lilies which in my garden bloom,
Or how much unattractive I find my sister's new groom.

Writing about the economy would be oh-so-boring,
It would be like describing cement, concrete and flooring.
On love I could write enough to fill a diary,
But so could any other Tom, Dick and Harry.

Then....One glorious stroke of inspiration and I finally see,
What the essence of my poem should be.
So ladies and gentlemen, with all due humility,
Gathering all my courage and integrity,
I present to you my dilemmas on writing poetry.