The blue-lined paper stares at me,
as if mocking me in silence.
My big brain sits all but empty
as I scramble words together.
A pinch of this, a dash of that,
I mince words, creating chaos.
Admiring my misguided mess
I am clearly no Chef Ramsay.
At the mercy of my fingers,
I wonder where they will take me.
Will my final destination
be a piece of punctuation?
I buckle up for safety and
relinquish all control as
visions flash before my eyes and
unleash the story in my soul.
**** A stop sign poem, another of my crazy concoctions, is made up of eight line stanzas, and each line consists of eight syllables. The number of stanzas within your poem determines the numbered way of the stop sign. For this example above, since there are two stanzas, it would be a Two-Way Stop Sign.****