Shouts of the waste of time,

Of precious clicking and ticking

Of the clock on the wall, apparently I am

Am wasting this moment.


They say

Poetry, oh

'Tis but a frivolous thing,

and Girl, you're wasting your time.

And I say

I do not see this moment

Crumpled in the wastebasket,

These words, maybe

Like tin foil, covered in wrinkles

And blinking in fluorescent

Lights sitting in the trash,

But this moment is not wasted just

Because I spent it enchanted and

(charmed) by parentheses embracing

my thoughts, commas attempting

to keep order but failing miserably,

because i, as commander of this army,

have done so poorly in directing them. Punctuation

alone does not hold the


of this art form, but the words, too

skittering across the page, conveying

exactly and whatever I tell them to.

Sometimes lending themselves (hidden shades

Of meaning) to the verse, that I had not

Even intended. Such is the magic, the grace


This "frivolous" thing you call

Po-e-try, but I call


Vibrating on paper.