I really can spew them out, can't I?
Poetry, I mean.
Without even trying,
I get this strange professional gleam
To every sentence scribbled
Every word misspelled
It's like the way an ocean
Deposites a delicate shell
Such power and force using but grace
To lie a beauty on the sand
Only to be picked up
By a child's grimy hands
And stuck into a dark pocket
Where no one can ever see
Perfection that is
Perfection that was
Perfection that never will be.

-- liz