Words fall from my mind, landing in a tumultuous heap at the bottom corner of my page
There they lay; broken phrases and unknown words quibbling amongst themselves,
Vying for the precise order in which to place themselves upon the lines above
"Luscious" appeals to my wicked side, pleading to be placed next to "Rose",
Hoping to form a cliche metaphor for ripeness and beauty
I hold back the sinful urge to combine them and turn my attention to "Pale"
"Pale" throws a mighty tantrum to be placed next to "Skin"
However, he's easily defeated by "Alabaster" which suggests a light from within
A word much more poetic than the dull, white "Pale"
"Oh, how the meadow lark sings
With worries not about iambic pentameter
His lines do not rhyme, each tune is unique..."
Wait, no!
Not a lark, but a jay bird, or three!
Is that more poetic, doth that please the tongue to speak?
Maybe if we compare them with a luscious rose
Oh, Evil cliche that disturbs my verbal sea!
The bottom line you ask?
I hate poetry!
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