Fun With Words

I used to write an ounce a day
I'd sit and watch the words all play

Form and storm, and wind around
Flowing with magnetic sound

As each flowed to match its mate,
The words, I found, each had a date.

A pair so simple, yet so true,
They marched until the rhyme was through.

Then some teacher told me wrong,
And said that rhyme was just for song.

A real poet should never rhyme,
Grow on up, don't waste your time

So I growed on up to be poetic,
And fought the words that were so magnetic.

Glorious matches, I'd let slilp by,
And to this day, I can't tell you why.

To explore the 'genres' of grown up thought,
I'll tell you of that life I sought.

To be adult, to be so serious,
To live in worlds that weren't mysterious.

To think about the reasons why,
To ponder, wonder, or just to cry.

With midnight writes beneath the heavens,
Grown up thoughts - at age eleven.

And now that I am thirty-two,
I'm glad that I can hit undo.

Back to life and back to rhyme,
Dancing words and wasting time.

Loving that which flows so real,
A grown up with such childish zeal.

As life is lived beyond my dreams,
Far beyond constricted seams.

To form and storm with words of magic,
The lapses really weren't that tragic.

I still wrote for all those years,
And found the rhymes beneath the fears.

Of wasting time as a poetic fake,
My hopes, I never let them break.

So I rhymed within such hidden places,
A garden of such secret spaces.

Books and stacks of hidden glory,
Each one of them tells its story.

Words abound so perfectly fit,
I couldn't help myself but to commit.

Each word to that which it belongs,
In rhymes, in dreams, or in a song.

Helping each become much more,
Than just a sea without a shore.

And in this fun I hope and pray,
My word will come along one...