Shortfall (Poetry)

When I, for years, have put my faith in words
how is it that they all forsake me now ? —
I’m finding little comfort in their form
they're sneering coldly back at me, somehow
suggesting that my constant use before
was ignorant and, for the most part, vain —
the lines I wrote were merely puffs of air —
no substance to those howling scrawls of pain
and flights of clichéd fancy — aping those
philosophers and famous long-dead kings
of literature who clearly understood
the meaning of those fundamental things
I way too often dabble feebly with —
those classic ponderings on love and death
all finely phrased in grander lines than mine
their meaning always ringing strong and fresh.

I could give up — I might put down my pen
what point is there in editing again
those soggy thoughts that ruin a white page
so readily — they spill as though a cup
is tilted careless in a dreamer’s grip
thus dribbling a random drip drip drip
the ink is barely dry when doubt sets in —
it's lacking in technique — the form is thin
and the rocking rolling rhythm isn't right
grates tedious on this impatient ear
the rhyme unsteady — curiously trite —
no inspiration — tired — devoid of weight
the poem’s like graffitti on some wall
best scrubbed and disinfected — wiped of all
pretentious daubing trying to be what
it aimed to be — but obviously is not.