He writes his every thought on paper that sits and waits,
In poetic nature his writing exhibits,
Fine tip #2 worn down from the miles of travel,
Words that are begged for quickly unravel,
But words on a paper was just not enough,
Easily spoken he felt a new rush,
Through the household his voice portrayed his rhythmic thoughts,
Seeking and searching for ears that his words could be caught,
His lovely lady, his life line and the one for better or worse,
He chases her down to read out a new verse,
She listens for hours with a heart that is kind,
Deep down inside though she’s going out of her mind,
She darts to the kitchen, “gotta cook some dinner dear”,
He follows behind and this was her fear,
Close to the sharp knives she sees her self grab,
In her mind she plunges and lunges forward with blade in her hand,
To endless dreadful poetry that no end is seen,
She grits her teeth and looks to her lover,
“Shut up my Love”, She screams,
With a little smirk a knowingly smile,
He goes back to his #2,
Then writes for awhile….
Originally Posted On Site: 2006-07-17 11:05:10
Last Login: 05.05.12
Visits as of 12-12-07: 106
Comments:
|
|||
|
|||
