My poetry *****



I’m so tired of writing

My fingers are sore

My poetry *****

I’m becoming a bore



Sticking a verse

In front of your face

Oozing with love

All over the place



Creamsicle colors

Metaphors thick

Wasting your time

Making you sick



Finding a title

Spending the time

Just like this poem

Something to rhyme



Or it could be free-verse…

Drifting on metallic clouds in copper spoons

dreaming in patterns of silhouette shadows

and my foot falls asleep



Maybe a Senryu



Read at your own risk

Dumb crap being written here

***** bags needed



Perhaps a Haiku



Softly floats the bird

Atop morning glory skies

**** thing **** on me



Or a Tanka, a Sonnet

A Villanelle or an Assterring

The last one is nothing

I made up the **** thing



So you see I’m no poet

Least not anymore

For what you are seeing

Is what you abhor



And I’m not complaining

Not here on this screen

My pen is on empty

I’m ready to leave



I’m so tired of writing

My fingers are sore

My poetry *****

I’m becoming a bore