by Anna

All day I stare
At words that don't fit
They don't fly and don't live
They just kinda sit.

They are jagged and sharp
They are soggy and limp
They haven't known joy
They are boring and prim.

At school and at home
(except in my books)
All I can find
Are the boring-word-crooks

It seems the only thing that's left
Is poetry, you see
It is the only thing that can truly
Set boring words free.

But, if we can see the good in life
We all will, over time
Than life becomes a poem
And you become the rhyme.

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