Day 21: Writers... are not necessarily poets

Here's proof:

A little red umbrella, crosses the street

Splish splash splish she goes “one, two, three”

A fragile piece of crimson on a cold gray sheet

This little girl of twenty-three, is finally free

A little red umbrella, spinning in the rain

Drip drip drip she forgets a childish instruction

The grays on either bank didn’t refrain

This little girl of twenty-three, singing to her destruction

A little red umbrella, it happens so quickly

Scream screech shriek she shatters a screen

Crimson spills over ebony, ever so slowly

This little girl of twenty-three, harbors no spleen

A little red umbrella, collects the tearing cloud

Splish splash splish they come and surround her now

Their voices echo with a terrible glow, so proud

Of this little girl of twenty-three, as she takes a final bow.

Jessica needed a poem for one of her assignments, so I composed one for her after listening to "Jenny's Theme" from Big Fish. Really, the only stanza that sounds nice would be the last one. The first three just... doesn't... ring nicely in my head.

Now that I've wasted one hour composing this silly little poem, I should really get back to my own final paper on Gertrude Bonnin. What a night.