There is not a poem for it,
and I cannot
write one.
Have I set the tone?
I once thought variations of letters
in words
in sentences
were immeasurable,
and then I wanted a poem about
love or sorrow
and I had written allusions
and imagery
and dramatized with hyperbole,
and my English teacher was
happy but
all I had written was literary devices
stirred in a pot of
soup we pick at with spoons
called poetry,
too hot, too cold, too bland,
too spicy.
Gabrielle Martin
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/called-poetry/
