I sat with much contentment,
for I am happiest when I write.
All my might
goes into the night,
with every word,
I began to write.
My shadow play’s
as my poet craves,
and my words are engraved
upon the writer’s block.
Soon word’s will play
as I write the plot.
The poet I am,
the dreadful lot,
dried 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 set forever allure,
nothing but shallow word’s,
yet still my poetic heart fell
into a poet’s disease,
with such passion I fell deeply.
I do adore word's
and there I was lost.
I fell to my knees,
as poetry devoured me.
© By Amanda Shelton