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The weakest part of my poetry the words
Worst part of my music the voice
The vulnerable part of my love is my heart
And my attempts at rhyme still stink like old farts

Count down to the future
Ten, nine, and eight, and seven
Rundown the ghosts of the past
Kill four or five, maybe six
Now is the eternal present
Three strikes now against the two of us
One zero…no hero…I guess we’re out

The greatest strength of my intellect: silence
My mightiest weapon is doubt
The most open part
Might be my broken heart
The simplest thing
But I can’t seem to figure it out

There is still time to invent a better conclusion
Time to edit and tweak
Time throw this verse away
Time to nap all day
Time to hope and to dream
I can write just the right thing
Time still to puke in the sink

Insert psychologically satisfying image here
Something obscure but symbolic
Something that pulls all the loose strings together
Into a coherent weave
Then end it with an obscure image from left field
Familiar, even clichéd, but still unexpected

Something to make them all think

Birds of a Feather