Horizontal in a harvest green recliner,
bathing in a rain drenched summers day,
I resided to put my sadness to paper,
only to find my chosen words had led me astray.
The lines of my page full were of teenage disease,
not a meaningful couplet to be found,
only shallow language written with ease,
and genius hidden with monotonous sound.
Every word I wrote had been written before,
with more beauty and rhyme than I could imagine,
I am a criminal in a world where Keats is the law,
with his words monolithic in stature, mine simply sin.