I tiptoe around, finding fault
with crafty imposters pretending
to be polished poetry.
Today the contours of my words,
all seem hideous and unmanageable.
I fight too hard to bend them into shape.
I slide old poems I’ve written
over my tongue like souvenirs,
hoping for instant inspiration.
Nothing but rubbish tumbles out.
Turns out it might be
a great day for gardening after all.
This one won gold in a contest.
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