Seussian Salve

You can’t force a poem, although you can try; it seems that’s a maxim, but I don’t know why. You smash it and bash it and beat to a pulp, like using sledgehammers when trying to sculpt. Sometimes it’s the topic, at others, the form - just rains in your brain like some strange neural storm. The trochees are croaking and Anna’s a pest; the dactyl’s intractile, the iambs cause stress. And Poet’s Collective just makes matters worse 'cuz Rannaigheacht bheag sounds more like a curse. So it’s back to your childhood, the muse of your youth; the Seussian salve is quite soothing, forsooth! ---------- "Rannaigheacht bheag" is pronounced “ran-a-yah voig”