When it comes to poetic woes,

I get solace in expressing my throes.

A lamentation of a hobby missing awry,

Through words that echo with a wailing cry.

Oh, how I yearned for this endeavor,

To embark on a hobby, to be clever.

But alas, frustration fills my days,

As I stumble through my matted ways.

Like a record caught on never-ending repeat,

My efforts falter, my progress depletes.

I spin in circles, trapped in a loop,

Missteps and failures, a steady soup.

I tried my hand at painting, a colorful delight,

But my brushstrokes betrayed my lack of sight.

Each stroke is a mess, a discordant blend,

I have a picture of a masterpiece, but it ends up being a failure in the end.

Next, I turned to the craft of song,

But my voice cracked and everything went wrong.

I tried to hit the zerotes, but they escaped me,

A cacophony of dissonance, a unfortunate symphony.

I picked up the needle and tried my hand at sewing,

But the fabric rebelled, my forbearance was slowing.

Tangled threads and uneven seams,

I am haunted by a patchwork disaster in my dreams.

Oh, the annoyance. It knows no bounds,

As I stumble through my creative grounds.

Despite this repetitive and negative verse,

I find comfort, a cathartic release, not worse.

For though my hobby may not find success,

I'll keep trying, I'll persist, nonetheless.

In the echoes of failure, I will find my way,

To learn, grow, and embrace a brighter day.