As you try in vain to paint a poem,

And on you go, all grumble and groan,

Searching for colors but none are quite right

So you sit up and stare at your paper all night,

Remember good poetry cannot be forced;

It decides on its own when and where it comes forth.

As you layer on washes of warm greys and clouds,

Stop here and there to read it aloud.

It may come all at once or ease out in bits

But remember while trying not to go into fits,

For the scene in your mind will not fade away,

Though it may have to sit there for more than a day.

The colors you need as you search far and wide

Will all make themselves apparent in time,

And you’ll find the right brushes and see what to do,

And all in time will your sweet poem come through.