A Crappy Poem

Poetry isn't something I really get.

As soon as I think one I start to forget.

I don't care for rhyming and metre and such.

It's just, for my brain, a little too much.

So here I try to write as I walk.

I say it aloud. To myself I talk.

The leaves are changing to my favorite weather.

It's cold enough now to wear boots of leather.

Of course my boots are made of some plasticy stuff,

That doesn't last well: they're beginning to scuff.

This poem is winding all over the place.

Like the wind that is driving my hair in my face.

This is the first poem I've written in years.

I'm not sure I'll post it because of my fears.

Yet what is the harm of posting this drivel?

If anything it's teaching my brain not to shrivel.

For having to keep some structure intact,

Forces me to use words more apt.

And sometimes the rhyming is a little bit forced.

And therefore the word choices are kinda the worst.

I'm getting more sloppy. It's making me stressed.

Now I'll go back to writing the stuff I like best.