Writing Poetry

The act started spectacularly:
My buttocks went down thunderously
To welcome the porcelain pot.

Then came the pen and paper
From within my magnificent coffer
To drain my brain of naught.

I stroked and scratched;
But not a plot I hatched;
I must be dumber than I thought.

I scoured for that wretched meter;
Alas! I'm not meant for theater
For not an inch I brought.

Wherefore did the bard loiter
And whence did the idiot master
And finally the sonnet begot?

But I sit tight for minutes five
And then perceive with a heavy sigh
That creativity can never be sought.