life is poetry.

as she sat on the floor

tucked away on the story of the university library

back against a shelf of books on economics

scribbling with a green pen

in a black notebook

about a paper that she was taking above and beyond

it came to her attention to think on poetry.

she loved to write poetry

but so often the words got stuck in her fingers

and didn't come out on the keys right

and the chaos of life and love and loss

oh, and school, the chaos of school

got to be a little much

and tended to interfere with her ramblings

in rhyme scheme and meter.

but strange and nonsensical thoughts

pounded in her head

like someone taking a sledgehammer to her temple

demanding to be thought about

and given attention

and worked out somehow.

so she sat there,

back to a bookshelf, 

economics section,

contemplating a phrase:

my life is a form of poetry

the ebb and flow

the give and take

the rhyme scheme

and the phrases that don't quite fit right

and you try to find the words to portray the emotion

but the words to describe life,

they sometimes get stuck in her fingers, too

and the concept of free verse is taken to a new level

as she falls or twirls out of bed

--depending on the morning.

so she is content

to simply not understand

even in the slightest

this strange concept

of laughing and breathing

and running and working

and living and dying

and smiling and crying

and winning and losing

and still somehow carrying on

phrase after phrase

line after line

to the beat of some

distant and present

almighty and awe-inspiring

laughable and unimaginable


The End

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