Why won't this pen do what I ask
why won't the words form true
I can't describe a simple shade,
nor tell of darkening hue
So much to say, yet cannot speak
the words that match the time
and though I try, I cannot seem
to build a simple rhyme
The words, the words- evade my grasp
slip quickly past my fingers
and though I coax them to my mind
they never care to linger
They run from me, their taunting ghost
is all they leave behind
a simple shadow of themeselves
-these words I try to find
I hate them, yet I need them so
to satisfy my craving
to intensify my crazy poems
and fill my senseless raving
Sweet poetry floats from my mind
with pretty flattering words
like peacocks who've no right to fly
like gorgeous, useless birds
And though it seems there is no hope,
though the perfect words I lack
I know deep inside my sidewise mind
somehow the words come back |
Submission Name: The Poets Enemy
