THE POEM'S POEM

When I sit down at night,
And I try to write,
My brain fights and fights,
Trying to think of a poem.
Bzzz, ahh my pencils is nice and sharp...
...Oh no my pencil's point is down to the eraser,
But I don't have an eraser.
Ah, wait no .
Gee, I've gone threw 16 pencils,
My paper's riped from erasing,
And it's 1 in the morning,
I'm about to,
Wait what's that.
I totally forgot,
It's the poem I did the other morning.

Daniel, age 9