Poetry... I have a day to write a 'highly conventional sonnet on the topic of love/death/poetry as an art form/time/changes in either the Shakespearian or Italian style.' Okie-day. No problem. I'll just sit here and stew for a couple of hours. Then I will frantically write several lines, re-read them, trash them, and bang my head against the desk until I am purple. After that, at approximately 1 am, I will finally sheepishly scrawl something in my notebook, which I will presume to call a poem the next day in English class. Peasy as ie.