you are all:
children
green
naive
unprepared

community full of previously coddled and heretofore coddling parents with their doting Yesses and ever-so-rare Nos. A poem, my good reader, is not any old thought; it's not a question, a "when-will-my-husband-return-from-war?" simple concern, but how a lyric tangles itself up in the bramble of a rhythm:

Just
Like
This.
See How the Words
Jump From One Spot Of Your Brain
To the Next
As Though They're Panning In Stereo
Such Illusory Text.
And Notice the Rhyme
Injected Therein?
I Would Keep Complaining
But the Bit's Wearing Thin.

one either has a way with words, or they should do away with words, but not before they try. i am not a poet, but i do, at the very least, try.

please try, tee-why.