I sit with my pen, my paper, my plea,
A tempest of thoughts like waves in the sea.
Words are my fish, elusive, untamed,
I cast my net, but they dodge just the same.

My pen’s a rod, my ink the bait,
Yet patience eludes me—I cannot wait.
The paper’s a canvas, blank and wide,
It mocks the storm I hold inside.

Some words wriggle, some slip through,
A flash of gold, then...