I wanted there book.
I wanted their book.
He wanted to go two.
He wanted to go too.
Why am I written in this way,
Forever correcting the mistakes they make,
Forever providing examples of them errors?
Who am I to set the rules of the English language,
Instructing him or she on how to write?
Instructing him or her on how to write.
Not many people care about their grammar,
Excluding writers and teachers.
English is a liberal language,
Herd and not seen when spoken.
Heard and not seen when spoken.
Rarely will someone stop and take a look at me,
Especially when I’m as boring a book as I am.
Why can’t I be a story book,
Telling daring tails of heroes and monsters?
Or a poetry book,
Filled to the brim with verse and stanzas?
Or better yet,
I could be a history book,
Recounting the stories of are ancestors
And grasping the passed with outstretched fingers.
At least a report would have more purpose than I.
A doctor’s report filled with notes on patients
Wood be interesting.
Oh! And what about a government report
With secrets that are necessary
Fore the survival of the country?
What about a novella!
Philosphies and ideas plus truths of humanity?
Think of what I could bee
If I were not?
What I be!