ZoeBee

My poems have been stuffed with rhymes
All week
Since three pm on Saturday
I've matched adjectives with nouns
So the sentences bubble off tongues into throats
I don't think they're as good when I'm rhyming

They call him the sheriff
He enforces the laws
He's handsome and kind
We don't see any flaws
They call him the "big guy"
He's strong and he's smart
Went to a 4 year college
Big hands and big heart
They call him the angel

If you're asked to describe me
Don't you dare say beautiful
Beautiful has stained my skin and bruised the apples of my cheeks enough
Beautiful has shut me up and laid me down 

I enjoy how the sweet smell of clorox wipes cuts the bitter of my pigsty
How paper towels and breeze-blue windex swathe my windows in faux-stained glass 

You should get a gun
They suggest
A little gun
Because you're so little!
Pink probably
Because you're a girl
You should get a pink gun with pink glitter bullets and you can bedazzle the sides with rhinestones

I'm stuck in a writers and readers block
My fledglings of thoughts haven't yet joined the flock 
I can't pen down ideas or read about others
And I would if I could, if I had my druthers