The first of these was written for a literary journal, and, unfortunately, was rjected. The second was a random burst of inspiration. Enjoy.
How proud is the peacock!
With feathers of blue,
Showing off to the world,
With eyes that hold true.
Yet why does he strut so?
To hide that he weeps.
For inside is sorrow,
That refuses to cease.
Who sings of his valor?
His mercy untold?
His brilliant kindness,
To all those of old?
Denied are these honours,
To be put to shame,
By the fabulous beauty,
That instead holds his name.
How sad is the peacock!
And envy does he,
His bride, the young Peahen,
For ugly is she.
~*~
Fingers, bloody, in the rain.
The sky is falling - what's to gain?
Beasts in cages, lovers scorned.
Sometime, somewhere, someone yawned.
Writers one and writers all,
We cannot let our artworks fall,
If books are dying, then die we must.
Before our beauties turn to dust.
Dickens. Poe, Austen too.
Which of these compare to you?
It's far too hard to write that well,
In vain our pens, on paper fell.
But, maybe, some hope remains,
The title "Classic" stands to gain.
Perhaps, imbued with our swift passion,
Our works will never die and ashen.
We know there's hope - it isn't found.
When by Writer's Block we're bound.
Well, that was annoying. When I copied and pasted, it wasn't lines. So I had to reorganise it, and firgure out where the stanzas begun and ended. It wasn't a pretty sight. 
"Cashew nuts. Macedamia nuts. Peanuts. If peas have nuts, why don't carrots?" My History teacher.
