Period

I arrive once a month.

You know, when you decide to actually write something.

You may not want me around.

All this free verse, open mouth and Emily Dickinson writings

But like me or not I‘m here to stay.

Yet, there are ways to get rid of me; but in the end I’m always here.

Like that silly silly  old story,

About the tortoise and the hare.


Sometimes,

people make mistakes, and suddenly I disappear.

Worrying you have to use a grammatical device, to make sure I’m still there.  

Without me your words would fatigue, moan and whine.

Be in pain, cramp up, making you think twice.

In a persuasive tone it’s hard to lash out your words without a period.

And to be honest wouldn’t it be difficult to make your voice entice?

If I was gone you’d have no appetite, nothing for saving.

Your thoughts on paper would seem as though they had a craving.


With out me,

you have a sentence fraction.

Trust me,

most critiques will find that un-attractive.    

But not to worry.

You’ll age become senile and have nothing to fear.

Forgetting to dot me down and probably never care.

So,

no hard feelings in this poem, I’m only jokin.

But lets be serious for a moment and talk about your  :