It is a bad sign when I quote a... curious library patron from years and years ago. Especially when the prompt of the day was to write either a sonnet or an anti-form poem. Anti-form and all its antecedents are anathema to me. Even if I should want to write something non-metrical and free form, I cannot do it. So sonnet it was. Only... I couldn't do it. My serious attempt at a sonnet would not go anywhere. About half way through the day, I abandoned it for a sonnet on my inability to write sonnets:
On Being Unable to Write Today
I’ve chosen today to write a sonnet –
I’ve never been able to write free verse –
But though I have laboured the day upon it,
I’ve nothing to show, for better or worse
But a crumpled collection of discarded lines
‘Mid work notes, in pockets, tucked into books.
Crumpled up pieces of terrible rhymes
Mocking the task I rashly undertook.
Farewell to pride and all solemnity
Away with every pretension of skill!
Embrace instead heartfelt humility:
We are made stronger by what doesn’t kill.
One can only try, but though I fail
Still I’ll try, as long as I am able.