I stare at a blank sheet of crisp paper.
This skill I can’t bring myself to master.
I’m staring at the page: I’m a faker.

My thoughts whiz through my mind like bitter vapor.
I feel that this will be a disaster.
I stare at a blank sheet of crisp paper.

I’m tired. Time to hit the coffee-maker.
I wish I could make my fingers type faster.
I hope nobody sees that I am the faker.

I’m not a kind of story creator.
I want to find someone that’s a poem blaster.
I stare at a blank sheet of crisp paper.

Poems have never been my favorite forte.
The thoughts start disappearing much faster.
Staring at a million people looking at the faker.

I can’t think of anything to write on the sheet.
Now, I’m really sure this is a disaster.
I stare at a blank sheet of crisp paper.
I’m starting to see myself as the faker.