This poem takes on an imaginary life of its own.
|This poem I'm writing just wants to eat,
And it's getting so fat I can't see its feet.
The more words I feed it the more it wants,
And it's even eyeing my croissants.
I had thought to send it outside to play,
And hope that it will just go away.
I'll close the blinds so it can't see in,
And when it's gone I'll just begin again.
I know, I know, you think me cruel,
But you wouldn't think that if you cleaned the drool.
It's messy and formless and no one would want it,
And I don't either, and that's the short of it.
So I opened the door and it barely squeezed out,
As it shuffled and wobbled and floundered about.
It played outside for as long as it could,
Then stood at the door as I expected it would.
When I didn't open up it just sat and waited,
Not the scenario I had contemplated.
So I'm feeling guilty, and I just can't do it,
I'll just let it in, and try to get back to it.