Statue I’m Not

I’ve had writers block for so long until this poem I wrote last week.

I’ve tried to write to become a statue, a symbol of some honorific virtue. Nothing amounted, not even accounted. What did I think I would do?

I stopped to think

and think I’m on the brink 

of another paperless ink. 

The words they come 

and words deride 

as they pass on by while my mind, wild, writhes.

Shakespeare lathers my soul with soap while on the boat that journeys home. 

The others all have things to say to make these donkey assess bray. 

Yet, as I watch and listen to all things considered

my hopes and dreams from all these years are met in deep-found, round desires.

Forgive me my sorrows as I dream of tomorrow; for now I’ll write and borrow.

Author's Note

Suggestions on grammar?