It is odd to write about writing,
the words sometimes write themselves.
It’s like a poem about poetry,
about the troubles and frustrating spells.
It’s odd to think about thinking,
it’ll make your eyes go crossed.
It’s odd to talk about talking,
for soon you’re completely lost.
Though why you’d want to write about writing,
I’m not entirely sure.
Or why you’d make a poem about poetry,
It seems a bit of a bore.
And why would you think about thinking?
If not to make your head pound.
Or why would you talk about talking?
Surely there are better things around.
And yet it seems I’ve done just that:
I’ve written a poem about writing a poem,
all about poetry.
I’ve written a thing about writing a thing,
all about writing, you see.
As I said before, it’s odd to do,
and even stranger to behold.
Well, what can I say, I’m odd as well,
and, yes, God broke the mold.