Acceptance: Ode to sterilized places & neat clean poetry

Fluffy words with no teeth
gorging meals of oatmeal and green jello
with a dash of saltpeter.

Tender gums and infected tongue grind
flavorless meal.
No salt.
Jalapeños banned from this confined space
fearful of heavy gas, discharged
when flavors are allowed to mix
and disagree with the stomach.

Marvelous moving mermaids
Fantasmic flying fairies
Whimsical waltzing witches (only the good ones)
or
Seductively sexy sweethearts

As long as it rolls off the tongue,
sounds sugary sweet or
pings of clumped tomato paste
does that make it
Remain sterile enough to ingest.

If you stray away from the ordinary
You will be told to get back in your seat,
fasten your seatbelt and
no, no, no, the finger shakes
You may not remove your buttocks from,
cushioned cramped seat until the fasten your seatbelt light
is extinguished.

Please let me be a cardboard box
at least there I can feel like I
live in two worlds--wrapper touching what's inside
but exposed to the outside world
where I can breathe.

Articulate in simplistic pseudo shifts
Sanitized so a child can understand.
NO jumping, fighting or pulling of little Suzie's braids.

Okay, give it a try!

I love this and
I hate that
because of...
blah blah,
blah blah,
blah
And all wrongs are righted in the final stanza
The End

I am not your standard 'one size fits all'
poet that fits in a compact box.
I am not always clever in the way you easily detect
or
sweet matronly grandma, age: 72.

Say it again with better poetic flair?

Walk beside calm trickling rivers and other slow moving creeks.
Places made happy and brightly lit
where tripping or falling are not allowed.

I tippy-toe on jagged rocks
until my pink toes bleed.

I say it again?

Travel comfortably on swollen bloody feet
across parched desert littered with broken discarded things.
My hands grasp razor wire
Not skipping rocks across calm ponds surrounded by tulips and fragrant clover.

Why make this space baby's breath in a vase?

I am thorns on roses.
Cut lilies left unwattered in summery windowsill.

Thus, the illusion of happy, fun poetic places
is crushed by violently thrusting ocean waves--they crumble
piers that stood sixty-years strong and homey well-built dwellings.

Can this be a free space for expression where molds are maintained
Idolized and embraced by the lover.

Where fairies flutter wistfully
and whisper sweet nothingness in the ear.
This space is reserved for battles with demons and pretentious poetry gods.

Does this roll off the tongue sweetly,
attract warm fuzzy feelings in the heart.
Do you get every nuance and pull it tightly to a pale thin skinned breast.

If so, I have failed miserably in my assessment,
Made too light of nauseating, cloud-like verse.
I want you to bristle and pull back your hand from the flame.