Today I am a sick little birdie. It's nearly 4 in the afternoon and I'm sitting here in my pajamas, wishing I had a mommy here to take care of me, feed me Dr. Pepper in a sipper-seal cup and make me eat saltines and raspberry jell-o.

Sonnet.

So. Iambic pentameter fits the
rhythms of my natural speech, you say.
Then maybe everything I say is a
sonnet... God... I must speak hundreds each day.
And okay, if you're strict about those rhymes,
maybe my ramblings aren't quite Shakespeare... yet.
But just let me practice, and in no time,
I'll be the world's most prolific poet.
My ex-lovers will run to the tabloids,
to publish my poetic confessions...
And next to headlines about asteroids,
private poems, breathed during make-out sessions,
will span the front page. Hm. On second thought,
this whole poetry thing... I'd better not.