Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

It's Hard, Being a Poet

Well, what to write about?
I was definitely feeling down that day. Why, you may ask? Oh, nothing much. I was just suffering from a broken heart.
Yes, a broken heart.
"Poetry!" I used to say, "Poetry is like a fine French cuisine. It may not be healthy, but it nourishes the soul."
As I dozed off on top of the wooden desk in my room, my arm falling asleep because of the pressure of my head upon it, I began to dream about her.
Too bad I can't really remember it. My alarm clock chirped through the enthusiastic pseudo-rooster living inside, and I woke with a start. A large, round, red mark shaped like my head throbbed on my arm and I lazily contemplated its vague heart-shape. Oh, how I missed her.
Her name was Rosalie. Rosalie, my dearest!
"You mean the new girl?" Nicole asked me later that day after Economics class.
"She's new?" I asked, at full attention. "I didn't know that."
"You haven't even talked to her yet!" Nicole scoffed. "You boys think with nothing more than your libido."
"It's a universal fact." Why try to deny it, right? "But you're wrong about me. I don't care ONLY about her looks."
"Then what?"
"She's inspiring," I said, sighing along with my heart.
"What inspires you? Her blonde hair, her curves, her... whatever?" It was obvious she was having trouble adjusting to the new intruder in our relationship. After all, Nicole and I had been friends since elementary school. It was only natural that she would feel at least a little bit of jealousy.
"No," I stated. "If that was the case, then every single cheerleader in this forsaken school would inspire me. No, inspiration comes from the spirit, or something more."
"You're the poet, I guess," she stated. It was true. Everyone knew that if you needed a love poem written, I was the one to come to. I still am.
That was the trouble, though. For one week (that's seven days, or 168 hours, to be exact), I could not have written a thing. Every time I would sit down, inspired by the girl's spirit, or her blonde hair, I would suddenly be stopped with an unknown force which blocked the power from flowing out the tip of my pencil. I missed that power. They do say men with power only want more.
"I want to be," I said, "I want to write about how much I love her, but unfortunately that cannot come true. Oh, Nicole, I'm dying!"
"Get over it."
I ignored that. "Loving is dying, I know that now."
"Do you want my advice?" She asked, stopping at the stairs which led to her next class.
"Oh, please, friend! Provide some relief to this suffering fool." Yes, I really do speak like that.
"Get over it." She turned, flipping her soft, smooth black hair in my face, and disappeared among the throng of people.
"I can't," I said. "It's just too much to bear."
I went back home and unsuccessfully began my poems with "Roses are red, violets are blue..."
It wouldn't be long before I sunk to "Once upon a time..."

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