This is me sharing my poetry.

Even though I hate doing it.
Anyway. I went to write a poem to God one night at home before I came back to school. I had written no more than the first line when a certain perversity took over and I found myself writing, not as a worshipper to the Omnipotent Deity, but as a sharp young lady to a rejected swain. The title comes from that oh-so-wonderful analogy of Kara's and mine. Ask me if explanation is necessary.

Pedestal Dancing
And when Eternity is done, what then?
You will grow sick of me, my too-sharp tongue--
But pause: for were I here to list my faults
'Twould be a list so long to fill
Those ages that you talked of.
Do you recall the foolish things--the sweet, but trite, out-bandied words you said?
'Twas moonlight had you stricken, I'll be bound,
For little else could so have marred your sense.
Good sense, on cloudy nights, you have, I grant
But yestereve you quite had lost your head.
Look not on me thus with such doleful eyes--
You did not mean it-- I will not be swayed.
Protest is useless; I shall not forget
The words you spoke (besotted syllables
That betrayed madness rather than sound mind
As was your wont). You frown most darkly-- good!
For such a scowl at least is solid, and
Can be depended on. Now, if a man would come
At noon, or not at least past three,
And, simply, state his case, he'd better chance--
For that would leave those aeons to be filled
With all the love you crammed into an hour
And naught to show for it but muddy knees.

I liked the rhythm. Thoughts, anyone?
I will be posting more of my scribbles, I think.