I’m thinking of writing a poem today,
except I’m not sure what my poem should say.
I have a new notebook with paper to write on.
My pencil is sharpened (the one that I bite on).
I now only need inspiration to strike;
to bring an idea that I’m certain to like.

I’m sitting here waiting, but nothing’s occurring.
No feelings are forming. No senses are stirring.
I guess that it takes just a little bit longer
to get inspiration that’s better and stronger.
Which means if I sit here and patiently wait,
the stuff I come up with is sure to be great.

In no time at all, the ideas will be flowing.
My mind will be humming. My eyes will be glowing.
I’ll write the best poem that’s ever been written
and people will read it from China to Britain.
The critics will gush at my beautiful phrasing.
They’ll give me a prize and they’ll say I’m amazing.

And then I’ll be famous and rolling in money.
I’ll buy a big house somewhere scenic and sunny.
Except… I’m still waiting. It’s already noon.
I hope inspiration starts happening soon.
Because if it doesn’t, I’ll grumble in sorrow,
“I’m thinking of writing a poem… tomorrow.”