Poem 69 - Poem by Michael Stephens
it seems at times,
there’s nothing else to write about;
and yet this stubborn compulsion remains:
to arrange lines of syllabled rhymes,
couplets to remind you that it’s over
and perhaps its better that way.
none too happy of course;
but what can you do?
except to take up your pen
to labor on the rhythm of familiar words,
phrases, and lines
you that yes: it is over and perhaps
its better that way.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You