This isn’t a poem



I’m totally not ready for this

When I have to think of words my brain’s amiss

Maybe I should write about my first kiss…




I can’t think of anything to write

These people think I’m crazy

I think they’re right.


Do they understand how hard this is?

My poetry is either a miss or a hit.

My brain is a big pile of




What time is it

Man does time fly.

All I can do now is try to buy

Into this thing they call rhyme

And this thing called “reading aloud”



Maybe my poetry isn’t meant to be read aloud.

It’s just my ponderings


Where to go next

in this rhyme scheme,

this time scheme

this mysterious scheme of life.


It’s not finished yet.

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