A Poem

Sitting in the bath
I thought to write some poetry,
perhaps become the next Plath
Or maybe Vincent Millay
Who I have a new appreciation
For. But then I have nothing to say
That is my own, and not wanting to
Write something emo and angst-filled
Like so many of my old notebooks I've gone through,
I decided instead to simply allow
The words come to me, original or not
And work on it from there. So now
I'm sitting here trying to get my rhymes to fit
Without sounding like a lymerick or worse
Something from a fifth-grader, though I do a bit.
It doesn't matter anyways
Since I will lose interest in poetry in
Less than four days.