Peter piper picked a pair of pristine pens <br />From the local bookstore. <br />They were blank <br />Silver coated Cronin chrome, with two small golden knobs on the end <br />They had nothing too important on them <br />Not enough to make up a silly nursery rhyme anyway <br /> <br />Jeremy Peter wrote round ringing and wrought words <br />He crafted the bleak blankness into a sizable hole. <br />He sat down in the kids corner, where his own private world <br />Strung up in books and a tethered conscience <br />Grew <br /> <br />He carefully clipped and cropped, cut and trimmed a poem. <br />It was silly and stupid…probably nonsense…but the feeling absorbed <br />His heavy Head <br />The pages spewed out soft tender tentacles that spun a speaking silence <br />Around him <br />The arms and legs <br />Of his words and thought <br />Kicked back the pent-pulled-up pressure… <br />It told him to relax <br />And drink in the murky mold and mixture of <br />Words <br /> <br />It said that soon he’d see something sweet <br />Something so strained with sensuous syrup <br />That it won’t be a poem anymore <br /> <br />Just a ditty people throw in their heads, <br />Spinning with out an end…and hopefully <br />they’ll forget the story.<br /><br />Jonathan Ballam<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/peter-piper-2/
