To write a poem is hard to do;
To put words in order when they don't want to;
There's inspiration but frustration, too,
Trying to come up with something new. I grasp at words, I plead with them,
But they refuse to fall into place.
Because they won't, I spit at them;
But they still resist, and laugh in my face. I see the faces of master shapers,
the master poets, look down at me:
"We will not die. But you will die."
But still, I write so that I will not die.