Oh woe is me
I cannot find the last brick
To make my beloved helicopter
Despite sorting into different colours
All I observe is a sea of grey
A myriad of pieces
Each engineered to perfection
But I don't want the classic four by two
That I hath screamed in pain
When standing upon
Nor do I want clips or tubes or thin rows of dots
Oh how I used to love that sound
Plastic crashing against each other
As I rifle through my treasure
Now it is only an irritant
When I turned the page
I hoped for any colour
Except this dastardly grey
Blue, yellow, green or red
I seem to possess less of those
Making for a simpler search
Yet I hath stared for many an hour
Removed bits and placed them back
But alas, no joy
Maybe I shall make my own model
It will not be as good
Not such an aerodynamic design
But the system allows me such freedom
To veer from the intended direction
To create anything from deep within
Sometimes you need to fling the book aloft
Sometimes you just need to Lego
YOU ARE READING
Bad Poetry You probably never want to read
PoetryJust some of the poetry I have written.
