Poor Old Rhymer Poem by Andy Brookes

Sometimes the escalator's up then down,
A series of hollow victories to make you frown.
You're not the first, not the last,
It's either famine, feast or I'm aghast.

You work you think for a goal
Put in hard effort heart and soul
Each hard-won verse, each little lyric,
In the end, the victory's Pyrrhic.

For someone else has covered the ground
With verses better and more profound
Have given vent to soulful a line
While mine just withers on the vine

Should I hang up, I think, my pen,
Cogitating every now and then
Leave the field, give up the struggle,
Stop getting myself in a muddle.

But I'm afraid I can't, with it I'm stuck,
I've tried to hide, I've tried to duck.
It's an addiction to words and phrases,
The Muse she looks on with angry gazes.

So I carry on, plough my furrow,
Write poor lines on each morrow.
Get down and dirty in the grime,
Struggling to rhyme each wriggling line.

Please don't pity or get confused,
I'm quite contented and amused.
Carrying on no matter what,
With what little talent I have got.