only Ws no Ls

I would like to tell you that today there are Terrible treaterous times and there are those Telling others they can treat the tragedy. But they cannot treat their own. For instance, Chemists create chemicals to capture creativity In carbon compounds. Clearly, they consume clarity. Researchers rewind retold reports of related research In hopes of rediscovering randomness. Biologists bother bacteria and their brothers to bring Upon a ballet of brilliance, yet only bicker while baffling. Philosophers fiddle with fidelity to fiction and cause friction Between forgiveness and fulfillness. I could keep listing the iconoclasts of infinitesimal Insidious ignition, but that would not help you understand The uncomfortable understatement of truth that Scientists see what they want, and they are sagacious In their senses but still surprise with the scarcity of Sentientness. In learning about the world they limit their Love for it, and leave their minds languid ...

This is so hard I’m sitting in my backyard Thinking about words to say Hoping I’m not astray Words want to fly away Nothing to display I can’t say a word in mind That will satisfy this story Running away from glory I'm a rock in its quarry Sadly, no substitut… Can’t say that word Brief Commentary: I had a hard time thinking of what to write. Writing the poem helped me realize how important each letter of the alphabet can be. Without the letter e, my whole vocabulary became much more limited. Putting in a rhyme pattern took me a longer time than normal. - Matthew Jin 

Box (by robert) He wrote of monsters from the deep Of Christmas children half-asleep Of azure skies and rolling tides Of mended hearts and broken brides He crafted every fervent word Recorded every sound he heard Pen and paper, filled with lines Captured all his best designs But never were his works complete Perfecting stanzas on repeat He stuffed his writing in a box Adorned with grey cobwebs and locks Toiling hard for seventy years He never shared them with his peers Instead, they rotted in his crate Surviving past his headstone date Years later, his son would find The tales and stories left behind He hunted down the rusted key Pulled it wide — and set them free All the paupers, all the kings Soared away on spectral wings Published poems spread like flames Posthumously gaining fame The son still kept the antique box But gone were all the webs and locks He’d see it empty ‘till he died For poetry was meant to fly