The End

I’m not a real poet
I don’t know why I try it
It causes lots of upset
When tiredness kicks in

Poetry I shouldn’t choose
I’ve far too many issues
And if you were in my shoes
You’d probably hit the gin

My poemy words get mixed up
The one I love gets shook up
I really am quite f**ked up
I’m lucky to have him

So when my poems seem bitter
Like sh*t sprinkled with glitter
That causes man to jitter
Just throw them in the bin

My world has not been all good
I’ve had my share of dead wood
Memories become mud
With good and bad mixed in

I ask for understanding
When sometimes underhanding
word tactics make a landing
It really is a sin

So, should I write of purity
To banish insecurity
Or sink into obscurity
I don’t feel I can win

Before I call it a night
A little tip – some insight
Think before you do write
Don’t rush the words in

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4 thoughts on “The End

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