Lesson one Fund of Poetry

My designated writing place holds nothing to inspire.
There is no joy or beauty to spark my ink-pens desire.

There’s nothing inspirational to set my heart on fire.
I find myself drawing a blank as I begin to tire.

Then suddenly I realize the mirror on the wall.
Perhaps there’s something interesting in here, after all.

And so I glance into it and see me sitting in there,
In my old crumpled pajamas, with my disheveled hair.

And when I see the puzzled look that’s hanging on my face,
I realize what I had missed, there’s humor in this place.