Just a Little Poem I Wrote

I can't concentrate, and the words in my brain just won't straighten out.
I have phrases, have ideas.
I have thoughts.
I have poetry.
But I can't seem to get it out.
My pen tip flows: a waterfall of blue-black ink.
Blurring at the edges.
Agitating me more.
My ideas, though, are not like ink.
They don't flow, they won't sit on paper.
They will sit and stew in brain matter.
They will float and fly and never alight.
They will remain half-formed because they just won't cooperate
Like trying to catch doves in the morning.
They say: Write poetry. How hard can it be?
Pressure.
Pressure to win, because if I don't, what will become of my self-esteem?
Everyone else: wonderful poets.
Give me advice. They write
Amazing poems.
They write ideas, not complaints.
How? I wonder, as my pen tip flows.
They don't understand my plight.
Plight, because this is my future.
These disobedient ideas
This pressure;
I am a writer
But of fiction: without rhythm or rhyme or any of those cursed, blessed plagues.
Fiction: my straightforward fiction.
My poetic fiction.
My comfortable fiction.
Without pressure: my world of chapters and plots,
Characters, and, ultimately, inescapable ideas.
Even fiction is no longer comfortable.
Harsh editors.
Rejected by publishers.
Poetry
And fiction
The fate (and delight) of a writer.
Who was to know?