As boredom swallows each of my parts whole,

with every one goes a slice of joyful time.

To me will come a trepidation bowl,

which transforms into soreness I rhyme.

This poem seems to relish misery

that I do not appreciate greatly.

It drills and grinds away at patience’s teeth

alike an overpaid dentist stately.

The unskilled hygienist throws up her tools,

because the very poem is persistent

like a tenacious patient with strict rules

to whom floss is extremely resistant.

This sonnet, while providing me with grief,

becomes a fight of pain, with no relief.