Crestfallen With The Doldrums of Woebegone Valentines

  

       I often wonder if the universe is playing a cruel trick on the inhabitants of earth.   Life is never perfect. Then just when you begin to think it is, the universe sends you a message that your life never will be perfect. 

       In the last year I've began to find my voice in terrible poetry as I try to wait out the universe and it's declaration that my life will never be perfect.

     Is there meaning in my poetry? No. It's just me and a thesaurus on those days when life has kicked me hard. If you are looking for a deeper meaning in my poetry, you want find it. What you will find is me and my virtually endless supply of thesauruses.

     I am not a wordsmith by any means, nor am I an articulate poet who can embrace the wind. I remain, me.  Plain old Abigail-Madison Chase.

I did not  inherit the poetic skills of a Nobel Poet Laureate nor will I ever win a poetry contest. But what I will do is entertain you with my whimsical poetry.

     I remain, steadfast and unmovable in my inability to use correct grammar or spelling.  If you judge me based upon that, then you my good sir or madam are worthy of more that I can offer in my mediocre books of poetry.

     I remain,

Abigail-Madison Chase,

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