This is just a short piece I wrote one afternoon. Exploratory, if you will. Please enjoy.
There once was a woman of twenty.
With words always plenty.
She was, I admit, wicked smart.
And had, truth be told, a huge heart.
She cared too much, it’s true.
It was always much ado…
…about everything!
All the time. Always on.
Like a wall of TVs at a store.
For all things she did have passion;
not a word did ever she ration.
It became quite exhausting,
and really quite costly,
to read the spew of words
that were, indeed, her bastion.
When she asked a question,
Best buckle in for the ride.
Once begun, one cannot hide.
To comprehend is beyond most,
Perhaps not even our host,
Again, about using words she would boast.
She was quire fiery,
I hope there’s no diary,
I cannot hide in a priory,
I don’t know where I am in her hierarchy.
For despite the fun
And having a good run
And saying give me cock --
She resorted to block.
It’s all very sad.
Not me, in fact I’m glad.
Amused instead...
...but discord we should not have had.
Being a baby
Is not being a lady
And is maybe
Immature.
Again, it’s all very sad.
Watching a faded rose.
One that never bloomed.
But gave itself over to an old withered vine,
and never let the tendrils go…
…tethered forever to wrinkles and furrow.
Never to laugh and blossom and burrow
and gain strength from root.
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