Shouts of the waste of time,
Of precious clicking and ticking
Of the clock on the wall, apparently I am
Am wasting this moment.
'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.