Forgot to title this one

I’m too damn busy,
a joy and curse.
But not too busy
To create this verse!

Too lazy for
a busy synonym,
I rather have the
taste of cinnamon.

So we rhyme in slant,
Like the night of the eve
The growing plant,
Heart upon sleeve.

Older we grow,
And Pressure accumulates…
Cookies that crisp
and Clouds that precipitate

It’s that damn pressure,
Its demand for perfection,
It frustrates and pains
Its beauty in reflection – 

Like the beauty of that Wish-Plant
That is but a seed,
Shall it blossom and flower
Or is it simply a weed?

With the best of help,
This poem is born,
I’ve lost my patience
with this poem
Like the little blackbird,
washing for home.

 

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