A Poem A Day #169

A little poem a day
Can be a beastly little thing.
One must think of new words,
Or else pull a few strings.

There are people out there
Waiting to be pleased
With clandestine words,
Or otherwise be brutally teased

With  the spoiling of their day
Because a hapless poet
Could not seem to put words down,
Despite all her grit.

What is this, then?
What does one call this?
This? It is not a poem.
That is, unless, it was the words you missed.

By Catherine Joy

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