Easily Done

I loathe ancient phrases from Chaucer; Dickinson too I’d rather be writing today’s words anew Poets of old penned words from past times But today, here I sit making small rhymes I take my amusement from words in my brain They walk in rhythm with simply no shame They’re pleasant and pure and easily write Get them on paper before they take flight Neither angst nor striving nor getting upset They flow onto paper lest I forget Others think strange, this thing I let loose Who’s in here with me? Is that Doctor Seuss?