I Am
Iambically I am but what I am,
With naught but rhyming meter I abide,
Attempting to avoid a rhythmic jam,
While taking every syllable in stride.
And if my sensibilities should fail,
My muses flee to leave me in the dark,
I wad it up and throw it in the pail,
And on another paper re-embark.
For understanding peace will never come
Until my tortured soul is on that page,
Until my emptied mind is finally numb,
I scribble resolutely in my rage.
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