Scratching Around (Poetry)

What is there left I haven’t said?
I’m struggling to think
if there are words I’ve failed to choose
some term believed extinct

There’s thoughts I’ve used a hundred times
expressed in different ways
but when boiled down they mean the same
when trading phrase for phrase

I trot them out line after line
there’s seldom something new
for emerald is simply green
and azure’s always blue

There’s little startling to say
on love or pain or death
the greater poets stole the day
the passion and the breath

I wish to write one perfect piece
original — profound
this page is like a barren field
I scratch on stony ground