Tonight, I’ll give my mind a canvas again.
Only this time it’ll be a piece of cloth,
I’ll find my spool of words and get ready with needles
And weave, perhaps, a better thought,
Which again, I’m sure, will never be thought on,
Or looked at again another time.
And, I’ll have to turn my weaved handwork,
Into a fancy boring book of rhymes.
And then through that, you’ll be taught poetry,
With their names, forms and types.
But all that poetry really is,
Is a bunch of wild thoughts and words, put together right.
What do you think about poetry?