I tuck metaphors under my pillow,
Slip similes between my bedsheets,
And hyperbole below my mattress.
I pass dreamily into a sensible, sound, serene sleep of alliterations.
With cacophonous sounds casting onomatopoeias,
And with nature being personified.
Such dramatically sound dreams. Oh, you oxymoron!
I smile and savour sarcasm,
Working to create ripples of irony.
Sometimes I portray myself as,
Comradely, polite and courteous
When I pass rude comments veiled with euphemism,
I assure myself that my alluring attitude of the use of assonance is appealing and appeasing.
I work, to beautify language,
Dropping stones to make mountains,
Drip water to make a river flow,
And then when they meet,
The waterfall leaves you gasping for breath.
And thus I create an imagery.
It’s truly scenic, the beauty of words forming a work of art.
I slip poems in my pockets,
I rhyme the beating of my heart
With the twinkling of your eyes,
Portraying you as a synecdoche.
I drop verses in every corner, hoping
That eventually they’ll meet up,
To form the perfect poem.
We are all in sync with
The movement of the world,
Our breaths and beats are in
Rhythm with our body.
We are all poems, waiting to be
Written and deciphered.
We wish to transfer epithets,
So come, let’s breathe poetry.