Cause that's not the way the world is baby

Rhyming sits heavy and sluggish on my tongue, I'm not like you. These words come readymade, but they are never quite what I want to say; they are so much more. But not like how sometimes what I want to say feels too huge, too raw and yearning. See how inarticulate. And sometimes a constant, sweet ache in the hollow of my throat which is when one traditionally resorts to gibberish endearments, pressing artificial points of pain that ease that ache.

These are my little tricks. I will always try to impress you, that impulse has not yet passed.

Mending Wall, Robert Frost
[Soil Physics! Gettingit.]

The faithless, Marge Piercy
[Did you sleep ok?]

Maybe You'll Remember, Pablo Neruda
What it says.