You said you weren't a fan of poetry,
Much less the trashy stuff written by me,
So obviously this thing is not for you:
It wouldn't make it past your attitude.
I wouldn't hope to change you, it's too tough
To circumnavigate your stubborn huff,
Promote the fundamental beauty all around
Which your imagination hasn't found.
The spark, buzz, butterflies are all still there
But fighting off a wonder and a stare.
The wonder's infinitely full of smiles.
The stare looks over several thousand miles.
So there, another sonnet full of crap
For you to slate as I lie in your lap.