it's like you've been passing with flying colours
and now the colours are flying over your head,
(black, green, and blue, and red)
like shrieking streaks of godknowswhat
and your subconscious is talking in twisted tongues
finding rhymes for words you haven't written yet, except in your head
and a few hundred false starts, creased and dark, in the waste.
taste, your mind screams, use taste, you can rhyme with waste, and it scans
but your fingers refuse to move, because if you move, you'll write sonnets
and you're not ready to praise anybody yet.
the halfrhyme of waste and praise has got you riled, and rhyme and rile a