Where's me? Oh, right there.

I wrote a poem today, and it wants to be a story instead of a poem. I tried talking to it, calmly and in an even tone (poems can be rather excitable) but it really does insist. I've put it away for now (sent it to its room without supper, so to speak) and I'm going to try not to mess with it anymore lest I give in to its demands and make it a story instead. Making something a story is, oddly enough, absolutely nothing like making someone a sandwich, which is what I wish someone would make me right now. Though actually, come to think of it, being made a story wouldn't be so bad either.