Whilst reading other poet's pieces,

My amazement never ceases:

The talent that these poets possess,

Their ability to write with such finesse.

The vocubulary so well-versed,

Making my own seem simple at worst.

Their stanzas are full of imagery and wit.

In comparison - mine seem so unfit.

Just how do they know so many terms?

Words like 'ethereal' and 'pachyderm':

I need a dictionary just to read,

Before the commenting can proceed.

And in an attempt for mine to excel,

My next writes put my mind through hell.

For a while I'm pleased with what I wrote,

So I try to get my work promoted.

I enter it in contests - feeling fine,

I read other entries and look at mine.

As I give my competition a glance,

I realize mine doesn't stand a chance.

Back to the drawing board - I try again,

But my attempts are usually in vain.

Other poets make it look effortless,

Their masterpieces full of cleverness.

And how they do it - I don't understand,

All of my efforts just seem to be damned.