There is a pattern to this
Poems are the soul of the poets who
Write on the paper, not on the
Fabric, blue and pink I'll take one of
Each other looked at one another and
Knew that I was a fool in
Love that dessert, the tang and the
Sweet pea doesn't cry on your
Pillow and sheets I pulled of my
Bed head that's me
And my name is iris and
I see patterns