Seventeen pages, words compiled,
Steady flow of contemplation,
Slowly changed, slowly restyled,
Softly spoken, innocent cessation,
Start again, begin my dictation,
Sensation of this new found temptation,
Stimulation out of my relaxation,
Sophistication, this is my translation...
I endlessly strive for the perfect word, to form my poem,
I recollect vocabulary buried deep within expelled,
I lead my letters into this sin as Israel with Jeroboam,
I now constitute a composition, in which I have excelled,
To want every sound, every letter to hone my thought,
To decide which one will best be suited,
To force new sentiments into you, now have you overwrought,
To conquer all who oppose, to be truly undisputed,
Is my goal, to be the one, to be perfect?
Is that too hard to ask? Just to have knowledge,
So when you read this, don't disrespect,
So now, you know, and you can acknowledge
That its just competition...