I have a much poetic soul.
I use my pen to fill a hole.
A hole which is in fact a void.
Should I not write
I would get annoyed.
Things that irk me far too many.
If I could not ***** about religion.
Lack of it or not.
Perhaps politics.

Tiny things that really itch.
Wind me up and help me *****.
Sometimes I write of moorland walks.
Or sailing ships.
Dietary requirements the increase my hips.
Chips found sitting on my shoulder.
Like an astute vulture I'm getting older.
As my life goes onwards.
My pen is getting bolder.

I write of *** and drugs and rock and roll.
Quarter century long past.
Once upon a time a blast.
Once all flowed through the poets soul.
The poet now is quiet and sweet.
Long time since between the sheets, for anything except perfect sleep.
But I'm not bored.
I have my pen.
Time and time again.
(C) LIVVI