CONSTRUCTING THE PERFECT SENTENCE

The sentence looked at me
in despair

as if I'd made it wear
both dependent and independent clauses

and yet another
parenthical in its hair.

It felt foolish as in
very very very.

"All the other sentences
will laugh at me!"

"Go on...!" I said
bullying it.

It looked at me
as if to plead

"Can we stop(ow)now
...please?"

Then tacking on a tacky
"...pretty pretty please!"

But I hadn't(gasp)yet
run out of mental breath.

I hadn't even realised that
the sentence was no longer

following me and indeed
had fallen asleep curled up

on( oh no not )
yet another ****** semi-colon.

When I came to
my senses or

what there was left
of them. . .

I grabbed it by the scruff
of the page in a rage

&: stopped
un-squashed its A4

constructing a crude
paper aeroplane

that flew ( oh how )
it flew

into the blue
plain wastepaper bin.

At last the sentence had found
a home

in the last line
of this ****** %*!! poem.

I don't know why I write poetry
all I know is that writing poetry makes me rich
enjoying -- not possessing
the ever-expanding universe
without fear of inflation

in the sky --
white clouds
singing larks
whispering wind
the tender moon and twinkling stars

on the ground--
mountains hills plains gullies
lush green red brown yellow
oceans streams lakes ponds
splashing gurgling burbling
the blooming flowers
the vacillating leaves
children's innocent laughter
cats dogs chickens ducks birds
jumping chasing croaking singing
all are parts of my life's fortune

of course, there too are
ferocious dark clouds
harrying eagles
howling storms
withering flowers
roaring guns
and piercing screams
the shadows that lend dimension
to poetry and life

In fact, I don't write poetry
poetry writes me

Lately I've been homesick
For the girl I used to be
Im in the same place with the same people
But the loneliness lays in me
I'm a hopeless romantic who's found love
Yet my heart has been ripped from my sleeve
Deep down, all the things I used to cherish have been shoved
The crazy, tea-drinking, book-reading girl is who I grieve
I'm a mere skeleton of the free spirit I was
I've been chasing a warm cozy feeling but it was never retrieved
For the home I've been feeling for is inside of me
My life may be onto better things but still I reminisce
For the girl who would so simply find bliss
My problems have been solved
So why does it hurt?
Maybe it's time
I put my heart back out onto my shirt