The Brussell Sprout: 

“I will not eat that Brussell Sprout”,

said Amy, who stuck up her snout.

A gross, green, leafy, salty bunch,

that has a certain vulgar crunch.

Over salted, under-seasoned.

She whined and begged and really reasoned.

On a nice blue and white striped plate,

sat Amy’s terrible, horrible fate.

In that big oak dining room,

Amy sensed impending doom.

The old rose:

You sat there patiently.

In that large waterford crystal vase, carved with intricate shapes and designs.

You were once vibrant and beautiful.

Your color as red as a fresh-picked summer strawberry, juicy and bright.

Your petals came together in a blissful display,

laid in perfect arrangement.

But now they’re all gone.

Your color has faded, your grace and beauty gone,

And yet you still sat there, patiently waiting.

Accident Prone:

Running fast, I should’ve seen

That extra stair, all slick and clean.

My foot was bound

To hit that ground,

and slide immediately on contact.

Then, really slowly, I began to fall

My pale, sweaty palms tried to grab the wall.

But I continued to descend,

into what I thought would be my violent end.

Then I collided with the cobblestone path,

and felt the sharp rocks’ painful wrath.

I looked down at the bloody stone,

and realized I was accident prone.

End Poem:

I dig through my brain.

Searching for a memory worthy of a poem.

Then I find it: The memory.

It causes an explosion of ideas, leaving a wake of thoughts.

I grab the nearest paper, and write, write, write.

When I have my ideas written down, I know I have it

Deeper than an essay, more descriptive than a story:

a poem.

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