It feels immature. I've bumped my crown,
and the wheels aren't going round,
I've come across a wall of words,
from which I can't come down.

They were already stacked when I was three.
They flowed so easily:
that C was for cat
which sat on the mat –
all of that, when words were free.

And Biff, and Chip, and Rainbow Fish,
and the spoon and the moon and the dish,
they taught me to speak
and to write and to read,
that great pleasure, that joy and that wish.

So why am I, thirteen years on,
still stuck at the simplest step?
I can't make a stanza or sentence or verse
work at all. They don't fit. They won't mesh.

So I'm learning again. I am three years old.
All those words and phrase have stopped.
They stumbled, then crumbled, then tumbled away;
I'm a kid with building blocks.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!