There isn’t any poetry in here.
My brain is ranging wide – creatively
I should be flush, with all my cells in gear –
emotions popping so the path should be
as obvious as marijuana’s dear.

I lied: that little rhyme awakes in me
small melodies beguiling and as clear
as glockenspiels or water wheels. You see:

Some call it grace – I say it’s exercise.
The formula holds neither cube nor square.
The muse is languid and she wants to doze.
You have to nudge her, make her dance, surprise
her with attempt. Conditioned to be fair,
she’ll reinforce your poetry and prose.