Poised on the brink of thought,
inching to a devious plot;
I'm almost really quite distraught,
to read the rhymes that I've wrought.
Subtle prose eludes my mind,
and vanishes with the fickle time;
With tongue stuck out, I try to write,
nothing but a nursery rhyme.
In vain, I try to stop myself...
trite words keep hounding me,
And all too soon I find I'm back,
right back to being twee...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem