In honour of National Poetry Month 2: Within this box of glowing white…

Within this box of glowing white

I type, in pixels black,

These words. I try to get them right,

Yet still I feel they lack

A certain something. Yeats I’m not

Nor am I Keats or Austen.

My forte, I would say, is plot:

This scansion is exhausten’.

And so, although ’tis poetry

This month is meant to honour,

I don’t think it’s the month for me.

Why, I can’t even find a last line that has the right number of beats and ends with a rhyme for “honour.”