Yesterday there was a problem with the Writer’s Digest site, and I couldn’t get the prompt. Today, I found out it was to write a haphzard poem.
Anytime he didn’t understand her,
He called her haphazard.
Her kind of organization baffled him
And so, he tried to fix it,
Fix her, with gifts of file cabinets and desk accessories,
Drawer organizers and shoe racks.
But she was stifled in his rigid boundaries and,
Could not think, could not write,
So she threw away the sock separators and in boxes,
Painted stars on her fingers
And let the creativity flow out of her.