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.