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.
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.
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: