Peter piper picked a pair of pristine pens
From the local bookstore.
They were blank
Silver coated Cronin chrome, with two small golden knobs on the end
They had nothing too important on them
Not enough to make up a silly nursery rhyme anyway
Jeremy Peter wrote round ringing and wrought words
He crafted the bleak blankness into a sizable hole.
He sat down in the kids corner, where his own private world
Strung up in books and a tethered conscience
He carefully clipped and cropped, cut and trimmed a poem.
It was silly and stupid…probably nonsense…but the feeling absorbed
His heavy Head
The pages spewed out soft tender tentacles that spun a speaking silence
The arms and legs
Of his words and thought
Kicked back the pent-pulled-up pressure…
It told him to relax
And drink in the murky mold and mixture of
It said that soon he’d see something sweet
Something so strained with sensuous syrup
That it won’t be a poem anymore
Just a ditty people throw in their heads,
Spinning with out an end…and hopefully
they’ll forget the story.