I have always had a hard time with poetry. Well, not always. There was a time in my life when I sought comfort in silly limericks and nonsensical rhymes. But, alas, that time has passed. For my 12th birthday, I received a brand new bike and a brand new set of expectations. My teacher spoke to me of an unspoken rule that forbade me from engaging in such candor. And I am what you would call a teacher’s pet. A rule follower.
So instead, I try to satisfy myself with these so called words of “sophistication” and “aesthetic”. Words that sound pretty together. Words like, the eccentric ballerino withered until he was nothing more than half a broken eggshell and pot of silver. Call me shallow, but I never know what these poems mean. Forgive me, for my immaculate brain is too maculate to comprehend this word throw up. But I would really like to know! I’d like to be included in this inside joke and find out what is so great about this thing you call “poetry.”
But until then, I will mend and mollify my meager morosity with a matter of mathematics (alliteration was also one of my favorites). Math has only ever had one right answer, anyways.