One would think I was facing a tiger:
Heart racing, skin sweating, my pulse alive,
Tongue tripping, mind slipping.

Kid, you're one in a million. No, one in six billon.
And I --
Hell, I can't write anything more. My pen isn't stuck. My mind is.

Yeah, a sonnet might do,
But they're too slow. Take too much time to grow.
The rhymes trip over the iambs, silly metrical feet,
And meaning is sprawled, stress unstressed, on the floor.
I'll show them stress. How about when you smile?

All I want is you, kid.
This poem has fourteen lines, one hundred forty syllables, too -
No rhymes, but I know I tripped.

Did it work?