I want to write another poem,
Though I said I wouldn’t.
My mind is starting to roam,
Though I think it shouldn’t.

I’d write with a different tone,
Or shape my words like a cone.
I’m improvise a line or two,
Maybe risk looking like a foo’.

I’d base all my stuff off rhymes
Because I’ll never have to think,
Except for a few seldom times
When my mind starts to blink.

But I’ll never know what I did,
Or what thoughts I’ve got to rid.
I’m not sure why I’m wasting space,
So I suddenly want to erase.

Yet even though only I’ll ever care
About this whirl of worthless words,
I’d smile to think they were ever there.
So having made my last accords,

I’d write away the end of insanity,
This fostered world of important ole’ me.

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