I Ate a Piece of Toast and Other Tall Tales

Attempting imagery after googling it once This was supposed to be the blurb But it's becoming the poem My measure of success Is getting it right, with minimal effort Because when I try And no one notices I get a bit... I don't know, maybe Splaying and unsplaying my fingers Like I've been working on my trigger work I get a bit coiled and my expectations Don't get met Perhaps because I've freeflowed To success quite a few times So I expect effort to work Like wall building Where every brick Gets a bigger wall That didn't work - my knowledge on walls is sparse But perhaps it's like blowing soap bubbles Slow and steady Can often result in your eyes stinging Because you thought you saw success On a wand, that wasn't magic But all the variables Of a random world Existed In your tiny experiment I remember When I spent a lot of time Perfecting spit bubbles I just checked and I don't appear To have retained the skill But I don't recall what the measure of Success was either Trying is also annoying Because when you stop You are suddenly unskilled In a way that winging it wasn't I'm dressed like a poet today This variable could go either way I might get so carried away with velvet And other textures That I have nothing to say (I think I'll do some more research)