I tried my hand at writing a sonnet,
lavishing much thought and care upon it.
I filled it with many really nice rhymes,
like "for us" and "chorus", "chimes" and "hard times."
I wrote about chirping birds in the trees,
liking the flowers that sway in the breeze,
the fresh, clean smell of the air when it rains,
eddies of water that swirl down the drain,
the puffy white clouds I watch in the sky,
the baby birds that are trying to fly,
the touch of a feather brushing my skin.
When it was it was finished, much to my chagrin,
the whole was less than the sum of the parts:
just one more page in the book of false starts.
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