I sat with much contentment,
for I am happiest when I write.
All my might
goes into the night,
with every word hanging from my lips,
I began to write.
My shadow play’s
as my poet craves,
my words are engraved
upon the writer’s block.
Soon words will play
as I write the plot.
The poet I am,
the dreadful lot,
the parchment paper soaked
up my thoughts.
Nevermore will I deplore
such illusion upon your life;
instead I will cut like a knife
into your mind,
there I will settle forever allure,
nothing but shallow word’s,
yet still my poetic heart fell
into a poet’s disease,
with such passion I do adore.
I fell to my knees,
as poetry devoured me.
© By Amanda Shelton | Admin
Thu May 07, 2020 1:58 pm by pedersean
» Seasons Change
Fri Sep 06, 2019 2:47 pm by Admin
» Spotlight Showcase
Mon Feb 06, 2017 4:41 pm by Admin
» A Poet's Disease
Mon Feb 06, 2017 4:03 pm by Admin
» Neglected
Mon Feb 06, 2017 11:25 am by Admin
» Rain
Wed Feb 01, 2017 7:10 pm by Admin
» Winter
Sat Jan 14, 2017 1:57 pm by Admin
» Introductions
Sun Nov 13, 2016 4:41 pm by Admin
» Rules
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