Poetry’s Mettle

Standard

Sometimes the words don’t flow
As finely as I’d like
They stick in my brain
And the string of repetitious,
Rambunctious ramblings
Somehow seems silly
Somewhat strange and unwieldy
Understandably undesirable
Undeniably utilitarian
And completely devoid
Of magic
And mystery
And majesty
And mayhem
Instead intent in insipidness
Inherently idiotic ideas
Frequently flow freely
Foul figments of imagination
Testing resolve at every turn
And tested the mettle
Begins to weaken
Begins to warp and crack
And in the cracking becomes
Something different
Something wholly new
Something almost beautiful
Almost palatable
Almost real

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