It's half past midnight
and the wind's getting gusty.
I'm rusty,
not lusty.
The skin on my poetry
is becoming dusty.
It needs moisture, life, inspiration
but sitting alone
causes mental constipation.
Give me some passion.
It's not out of fashion
but I'm not getting my fair ration
of oomph...
So I'll crawl into bed
and hope that my head
becomes a collection box.
That it rocks
with the weight of some words
strung together in an orderly manner
and not dropp a clanger
by filling it full of puerility.
What futility!
Fran, for someone with no inspiration, you are not doing too badly here. LOL. Just keep up the great work. Top marks and thank for sharing this. Hugs David
Sometimes inspiration won't allow for us to write, the words come out all wrong, but look what you have achieved here, well written as all your wor is, 10 Lynda xx
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Lick of paint, New curtains...A new afterdeck...Got it made.. Sid xxxx