She is Poetry

Nothing about her was poetic.
She stumbles over her words like a 2-year-old toddler and blabbers about things that mean nothing.
Her big feet trample anything near them and her big arms fail around like she is a giant swatting at a bee.
She always takes up too much space with her body that never seems to be in the right position.
Her lips crease at an odd angle and even when she's happy her smile never really looks like one.
Her nose stretches across her face too far.
Her fingers crook like rivers, and she's always too loud.
Her eyes are small and squinty, always set in an annoyed look.
Nothing about her is poetic, yet here I am, writing a poem about her.