Papers filled and notepads torn,

The excitement of an idea born.

I bolt towards the table to write,

When my poetic pen gets out of sight.

An exact word then fails my memory

My vocabulary keeps adding to my misery.

As I sit near a window and start to pen,

The syllable count goes from six to ten.

Considering what rhymes with my words,

The scribbled paper has now blurred.

Praying, somehow, the submission day would never cease.

At last, I finish my masterpiece.