My first feeble attempts were polliwog prints on
            waterlogged ground.
I knew what I wanted to write,
But to express it in a purity of description
that others would feel what I wanted to say --
Required mental contortions I found
            nearly impossible to perform.

Succeeding attempts seemed as fantasies dangling
            in secret passageways,
Hidden in the compartments of my thoughts --
Tentatively exploring new delivery routes
To liberate my reflections quickly
Before they returned to the womb of my intellect
            in unuttered extinction.

The aftermath of rigorous struggle resulted in
            inspired images
Of such intricate and compelling creations that
I seized paper and pen, intent on capturing them
Before they hurried off into oblivion
Without the benefit of birth -- or at the very least,
            a decent burial.