Wednesday, 14 January 2009

writing poetry
had always been a mystery
to me

writing prose, though
that always seemed to flow
i wrote prose like a pro

but its really strange
there's been some awkward change
to my writing range

my mind now fills with verse
when i write stories i curse
that ability is now in a hearse

i can quite easily rhyme
ive adapted to another clime
but i long for a younger time

i was once able to stories write
once i was an author bright
but i will compose verse this starry night

and maybe one day it will return
reason not rhyme will my mind outchurn
i wait for it with deep concern

will then my verses die away
unable to compose will i stay
what will happen i cannot say

but it is still my sincere dream
to compose stories that do not seem
to make people with agony scream

1 comment:

aandthirtyeights said...

Write poetry - one must,
Its fair and just,
And devoid of lust.
It doesn't collect rust.
Or gather dust.

Prose, ah, its love,
Tells poetry to go shove.
Like the pakkad-mane dove.
D'you understand that, guv?