The poet sits, a tamer bold,

Of words that leap, of tales untold.

They buck and rear, refuse the rein,

Like stallions wild on open plain.

Yet still the poet strives to guide,

To shape them into lines of pride.

There are days when words comply,

Flowing smooth as apple pie.

Metaphors mix, similes sing,

Rhythms dance, and meanings cling.

But then there are the days of drought,

When not a single word comes out.

And in between, the middle ground,

Where words are found, but meaning's drowned.

The poet wades through murky streams,

Of half-formed thoughts and shattered dreams.

Until at last, a spark, a gleam,

The poem takes its final form, it seems.