Why I Write, Part x+262: The Recipe

Start with a stance, passionate but unbalanced.

Throw in dashes of Dickinson—if she hadn't had talent—

and cut into sections with rhymed ends that slant.

Into some, the essence of nineties decant.

With the essance of aughts, be a little more stingy.

Let the thing stew in a brain-bucket dingy,

Then knead it in an uneven rhythm that skips.

Alliterate lightly to cover the blips.

Mix metaphors up like a suicide soda,

and finish it off with an unrhyming coda.

Oops.

Eh, nevermind.