I am a whiz at misspelling
Finding words phonetically distressing
And wrecking them like fracking and drilling.
To my mind they are manipulating
Making essay writing thrilling
In an awful, desperate, way.

So in the foreboding
Of writing a poem
I can feel my brain exploding
Thinkin’ I can try and show em’
Just show good I am at this.

I must admit I am a lover
Of words closer to me than my own mother
But the thought of rhyming seems to hover
With a dreary presence over me

So for this mental pain to cease
And for my stress level to decrease
And with as little elbow grease
As I can give

I must end this poem here.