Dear Rhyming,

You and I, we don’t get along. When I try to write you, it comes out all,

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I think you are stupid

And I hate you.

While concise, it’s not particularly full of meaning or imagery or um, let’s see, anything worthwhile at all.

There was a young child named Bucket

When he got mad he would say…

Oops. Better stop there. You see what I’m saying. But today I am declaring a truce in this war of ours. Today I sat down, and I tried to trick you into coming into my poem by writing it and then sneaking you in between the words and then quick! before you or I could realize! pulling away the curtains and revealing you, naked and embarrassed, at the end of the line.

I feel exhausted, and a little bit dirty for some completely unexplainable reason, and proud, and very very nervous to show you in public.

Like maybe this is going to result in that scene from Young Frankenstein when the monster tap dances and sings for the huge crowds, and it’s fabulous, and they’re going wild, and then there is fire (right? I think so) and he goes nuts and stomps on some things and then the people are going wild. And both the monster and his creator are hunted down with pitchforks.

I’d rather not have that happen. But I was talking about taking risks with writing yesterday and decided to start with you, and thank you for sticking it out with me this morning. Maybe we should both take a nap and reconvene tomorrow.