(…hats off to Bob Dylan and his song, Blowin’ in the Wind…)
How many revisions must I walk down searching for the metaphorical crown? How many seas must a smart-ass seagull skim, before basking in the tide’s baneful brim? Yes ‘n’ how many times must a squirrel scream before I FINALLY get what it means? The smell of flowers is drifting in the wind, disrupting the monologue in my mind…
Don’t push me — no prodding or pummeling.
Don’t try to persuade with your pleasant propaganda. Don’t pursue ME.
Your point is well-taken. Perhaps one day, it’ll be compelling propelling;
I’ll put the pedal to the metal. But if you pick Pick PICK at me much longer,
I’ll punch you in the eye. Your prompt will become an UN-PROMPT.
Psychological pitter-patter, putter mutter, mumbo jumbo —
I DON’T LIKE BEING PUSHED.