• This may flow.
    This might even rhyme.
    But I assure you.
    It is a poem of no kind.
    This is clearly, as it shall be marked.
    Whatever my fingers decide to type.
    But I will promise you this,
    Though it may not be kept.
    I shall speak none of love
    And romantic trends
    For I am a simple person.
    I am simple in words.
    For my spelling is horrid.
    And Grammar is something to avoid
    As I am simple in words
    I am simple in thoughts
    At this moment at least
    For simplistic feelings
    Are overcoming me now.
    This is again, a promise
    That may or may not be kept
    For what am I to know
    When my fingers decide?
    So you may read these words
    As soft as a whisper
    Or as loud as a yell
    For no inflection shall be instructed
    For fingers know no sound.
    So soon this piece will begin,
    My finger's flood of feeling.
    But yet, how shall that make sense?
    For fingers keep no promise.
    Nor hear a sound.
    They may rhyme if they wish,
    Their words possibly flow.
    So I will decide now
    Without my fingers consent
    To abolish their stretch of feeling
    Before it has begun
    Because, how silly am I!
    The fingers mine
    My feelings they have rung
    So all you have seen
    Is my fingers decision to write.
    So this is the end
    Of what has never begun.