I had to do a poem in the style of Edgar Allan Poe's the Raven. I actually don't mean anything I said in this poem, Poe was a literary genius.

Once, upon a fall day, mind bland and pen gripped tightly in my hand,
I have to craft a poem, as came the demand, this do I know.
A journey to the couch I make, wanting this done for goodness sake.
Excitement, fear and dread makes me quiver, from head to toe.
When my mom asks, "Why, why do you quiver, all from head to toe?"
Quoth I, "Edgar Allan Poe"

Now sit I down to my hard work, my duties I will never shirk.
But the pen is encased in murk, my thoughts will not forward go.
No inspiration comes to mind, to my thoughts I am most blind.
As the day wanes on and the necessary words do not flow, I remind myself of writing class, and try to make words flow.
Curse that mirthful dead man, Poe.

And now the dark night comes on fast, my chance has far too quickly past.
And I know that this is not a blast. But then behold and lo,
I at last learn something new, I now realize, behold and lo.
I hate Edgar Allan Poe.