Was That Word Buttercup

Poems creep in like spiders, capturing me in web so fair. Poems slip in like mice, sticky traps holding them in place. Poems prance in like majorettes, throwing batons in the air. Sci-Fi dances around in my muse’s brain, taking all the space. Poems twirl around my dendrite highway, waking me up. Poems shake me off the bed, landing me squarely on the floor. I hear the last line, and I think “was that word buttercup?” Poems laugh at my consternation, their humor I deplore. Poems slide by on the wings of undiscovered pretty galaxies. They jump into my head at restaurants when I cannot find a pin. Poems dive bomb my bed at night, witch-like in their hex-ease. They throw themselves at me in bathrooms; I simply cannot win. I do the best I can though, amusing poems in ways I do not dream. They throw down words I have never heard, and so I look them up. Poems own me, taking me hostage in a pretty hostage stream. Did you hear that? I have to know. Was that word buttercup?