As a child,
High-pitched,
And motor mouthed,
Life never moved
Quite fast enough,
And poetry was just
A roundabout way
To state the obvious,
An inconvenient mess
Of similes and metaphors
To be analyzed,
Plucked apart
During English class.
I’m older now,
The years have flown
And I want that time
Where I circled similes
And underlined metaphors
So I write my own,
It’s shocking, I know,
But maybe I’ll slow time
And live forever
If not in flesh
Then by ink.
12/21/12
