Confetti

I’ve been worried too much about sound.
I only enjoy rain if I can hear
it coming down—see? Again. That was a
terrible line, dictated by my all
too arbitrary desire to confine
my writing. Stop! If I don’t break away
from this corny tuning of my turns of
phrase I may go insane. Okay. This is
getting ridiculous now. How. Cow, plow,
bough, bow, know, no, no, no, no, no, no!
I want to be a writer of merit,
not meter! My words to be Romantic,
not cheap dinner theatre! And popular!
No, maybe I do not want that either.

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