Beyond the Papery, Lined Realms of the Manifold Pages of My Triadic Notebooks

A silly superstition enwraps and grips me, It holds me and will not loosen its vile, crushing deathgrip: It is a numerical one, this foolish superstition to which I have my subscription, For this is the numerological sorcerous fallacy to which I've subscribed: That, as I have yet published a baker's dozen of poems hereon, (Though this poem or that preceding it, might have in fact made it fourteen), I must exceed the number somewhat, and do for today the writing of Four poems, yet the dilemma in which I currently awash, This quandary, this conundrum, this balk and qualm of mine, Is as follows: In my troika of notebooks and journals and leather diaries I've earmarked For poetic use, the tally of poetries I've written therein today is but two, Thus I would not reach the somehow sacred number, That numerical goal I've set for myself of seventeen, Unless I were to write two more poems, extra-notebooked ones: Being ones beyond and without the notebook, Beyond the papery, lined realms of the manifold pages of my Threefold notebooks. So to solve the insoluble, and resolve it, what was I to do? I tasked myself with reaching the putative goal of seventeen, But how would this devoir I achieve? Only by the conception and composition of a pair of extra poems, Thus, to accomplish that total, this poem and the one that preceded it. So, have I paragraphed this page thus, in the manner most befitting That of the poem. And now this emptiest and most filler-like of my poems yet, it be done.