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This may flow.
This might even rhyme.
But I assure you.
It is a poem of no kind.
This is clearly, as it shall be marked.
Whatever my fingers decide to type.
But I will promise you this,
thought it may not be kept.
I shall speak none of love
and romantic trends
For I am a simple person.
I am simple in words.
For my spelling is horrid.
And Grammar is something to avoid
As I am simple in words
I am simple in thoughts
At this moment at least
For simplistic feelings
are overcoming me now.
This is again, a promise
that may or may not be kept
for what am I to know what
when my fingers decide?
So you may read these words
as soft as a whisper
or as loud as a yell
for no inflection shall be instructed
For fingers know no sound.
So soon this piece will begin,
my finger's flood of feeling.
But yet, how shall that make sense?
For fingers keep no promise.
Nor hear a sound.
They may rhyme if they wish,
Their words possibly flow.
So I will decide now
Without my fingers consent
to abolish their stretch of feeling
before it has begun
because, how silly am I!
The fingers mine
My feelings they have rung
So all you have seen
is my fingers decision to write.
So this is the end
Of what has never begun.