Ode To a Certain Ode That You Will See In August - I Hope

This ode's impossible, a structured mess of playful praise, stacked serious on a shelf, closed spheres of wit contained. I must confess I think of it in excess to myself. It hoards the writing room inside my brain; it locks the door four times, once for each page. It's taken me a year; I must abstain from overthinking at the thinking stage. Clichés and tired words are enemies; they're banging on the wall, then plummeting into that mushy high school poetry that thins and deconstructs like rotten string. This ode's impossible, a four-page worm. It coils around me so enticingly; I declare that I will finish and affirm commitment to the art of purity.