I've written two poems today.

One was good, the other not.

For the first, I would just play.

With help of my muse, I taught

My readers the best of ways

To make your art super hot.

Success when unplanned

Is in such high of demand

That I must accept my own

Ability to unconsciously hone

My words like a blacksmith.

Using a tool to temper with,

I can make much greatness.

But, still, I have to confess:

I thought the second may

Become a story with a plot.

But, while I labored away,

My words got tied in a knot!

Where before the wet clay

Turned itself into a pot,

This poem that I planned

Should be totally banned.

Why is it my muse is prone

To suddenly start to moan

When I try to wordsmith

A purposeful monolith?

It drives me to madness,

I'm under such duress!

But, fate can only delay

My ascent to a slow trot.

Truly, I am the most gay

Of writers who have got

A connection to the Fey.

So, one poem may rot,

But, the other will stand

As a trophy most grand,

As it was properly sown

While I was in the zone.

Let it become herewith

Known as a mere myth

That I always impress,

Cuz truly I am a mess.

I can but hope and pray.

Yet, even if I'm on the dot,

My aim will not forever stay

Still as many new words I jot.

However, I must shout, "Yay!"

One good poem is still a lot.

Critique One

Critique Two