Free verse № 118157
The Poet's Plight
Lying there naked in a puddle of blood,
Covered from head to toe,
Hidden from sight for the whole world to see,
Blow on me cold winds...... blow.
The poetâs plight is nothing to behold,
Trapped in a cell all alone,
Waiting for thoughts to turn into words,
His work will remain unknown.
Driven from within by a voice of discontent,
Harbinger of things that might have been,
Poems that pierced the heart of every soul,
Lying at the bottom of an old trash bin.
4 comments
Lying here nude in a puddle of cack,
Besmear'd on my hindparts, and phlegmy,
Hidden from sight (for I'm terribly black),
I'm a Negro and I................. whemy.
My behavior, I tell you, is nothing so sinful:
Children do it - and even Steve Buscemi
Is known to go in for an occassional chin-full
Of the feeling we call......... "the whemy".
Driven from within, while its virtues I extol
And you heathens and non-PhDs condemn me -
Oh God! It's happening! Quick! Grab the bowl!
It's....................................
I was struck recently by the thought, "it doesn't matter how hard you cried when you wrote it - it don't make it good".
This one though, aint bad.
Log in to add a comment.