Budding Poet of the past

There comes a time in the life of one,
When one feels, "There's more to be done"
"No use wasting time in gloom, I ought to let my talents bloom"
T'was just a time like this, When I felt something was amiss,
So, at writing I tried my hand -
Got paper-pen, and felt real grand.

But the words did not easily flow,
Thought I'd let my talents grow.
"After all", I said with a sigh,
"Money cannot solitude buy!"
Yet, determined as I was to try,
The wells of thought had just run dry!

To write a poem, one had to be sad,
One couldn't write if one were glad!
So I sat with a frown and furrowed brows,
Even nasty mood and crinkled nose;
Tried real hard, but on day three,
I decided writing was not easy!

Everything I wrote somehow seemed fake,
Poems just weren't my piece of cake!
My dreams of letting my talents bud
Tumbled down and landed with a thud!
My friends told me not to be low,
Maybe I was just a little slow?

But their comforts were all in vain,
For my hopes had gone down the drain.
So I went back to being happy and gay,
And forgot these woes in a day!

Then, as I sat one day in class,
I wrote these lines for timepass!
I nudged the friend who sits with me,
And moved the book so she could see...
Then almost laughed as I heard her say -
"Hey, you can become a poet one day!"