The Pained Poet

Jim...was a convenience store clerk
A twenty-something with honest work.
He wasn't bright or a handsome sight
And often couldn't sleep at night.
And yet, he'd find time to dream.

It would seem, life had nothing in store
For a twenty-something who could do little more,
Than ring up orders for convenience store hoarders
With arm fulls of candy and eating disorders.
And yet, he'd find time to dream.

Jim had a simple routine
That began with a magazine.
He'd circle and snip every interesting quip
And store them in plastic bags with a "zip".
Jim was planning something it would seem.

As a child, Jim would often pretend
To be a famous poet who'd penned,
The greatest verse since that hearse,
Had taken old Frost across the traverse.
Jim was planning something it would seem.

When Jim's shift had ended at night
He'd head to the park and write.
He'd rhyme about life and he'd rhyme about time
But none of his poetry was worth even a dime.
You see, Jim never learned to spell.

His poetry was colorful and full of life
But misspellings and misgivings caused strife.
For poor Jim who dreamed of colleagues esteemed,
His poetic visions could not be redeemed.
You see, Jim never learned to spell.

And even now, Jim continues to pen
A new poem every now and then.
But to his dismay, he cannot convey
What he truly wishes to say.
Still, Jim dreams of fame just as well.