Poem Jones

I squawk as a chicken with an egg in her vent

squeezing like a con man mid grift

I'm stuck on a stanza without any portent

still channeling my muse for a lift

I struggle like a dirt tire spinning in sand

scrambling to first arrive 'pon the line

I'm crashing and burning as a major ode wreck

yet my muse tells me everything's fine

I long to be published, paid well and heard

dreaming hard about my place at Bard's table

I'm hoping my pipe dream becomes a reality

while my muse says I'm perfectly able