Prickly

When I'm feeling
porcupine-y,
I get nasty,
I get whiny.

Stay away or
I might stick you.
My sharp words are
quills to prick you.

I’m going to become a beat poet and a lesbian!

He pulled me close and said, "Katie, don't leave me, you're my breath, I refuse to live without you."
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard, but I still walked away, because my name is Anne Marie.

Fenchurch had red mullet and said it was delicious.
Arthur had a swordfish steak and said it made him angry. He grabbed a passing waitress by the arm and berated her.
“Why’s this fish so bloody good?” he demanded, angrily.

Prior to Wordsworth, humor was an essential part of poetry. I mean, they don't call them Shakespeare comedies for nothing.

Whereas story is processed in the mind in a straightforward manner, poetry bypasses rational thought and goes straight to the limbic system and lights it up like a brushfire. It's the crack cocaine of the literary world.