My words won't seem to flow of late,
a couple lines then rhymes deflate.
Too soon they stumble, thoughts abate.
From mouth does tumble basest prate.
Maybe whiskey, swallowed straight,
or potent herb, consumed in weight
will end this twisted, tragic state
of yearning pen, without will to sate.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
My words won't seem to flow of late,
a couple lines then rhymes deflate.
Too soon they stumble, thoughts abate.
From mouth does tumble basest prate.
Maybe whiskey, swallowed straight,
or potent herb, consumed in weight
will end this twisted, tragic state
of yearning pen, without will to sate.
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