The man said look there
and the skies went red,
He pointed directly
as the many fell dead.

Is this now his quiet
words added in.
The legacy from
a world full of sin.

A long, long, long,
time ago it is said.
Even before humanity
ever raised it's head.

The world had a soul,
the tempo was nice.
In fact it was
a real paradise.

Simple creatures knew
that life was rough.
They also knew when
enough was enough.

And although they
sometimes had to ****
it was just to survive.
Never for the thrill.

That curse came later
and when it began
the name of this curse,
the arrival of man.

And so it has gone
millennia has past
and the world that we've ruined
is not going to last.

So here it starts,
plagues on the street.
And people are falling
down dead at my feet.

Trying to run,
driving their car
but with nowhere to go
they will not get to far.

They mistreated this planet
they maligned this place
and now this planet earth
is looking them in the face.

The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.

If every morning that began with words in mind prompted a new poem, then I'd be a constant poet.  Like this morning, would have been a bit about gerunds and how you just shouldn't gerundize some nouns because it isn't right.  And then some are right but not because the connotation of the word or context remains the same.  Take pan and paning, for example.  One is breakfast and the other in film.  But anyway, if I'm allowed to not make sense often then perhaps I am a constant poet.  I asked the question, "Why is the expression take a ****?  Taking isn't what we do..." Perhaps the language affords us  many luxuries of interpretation that forgive literal correctness and rules.  Like writing a paragraph of prose for Hello Poetry.  But maybe we are here because we question the limits and take the license and more.  The words become a playground, not a chore.  Yes that's it!  My morning meandering leads to a single poetic thought.

The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.

I walk across the landing
and through the double doors
and aim towards the lift shaft,
that's where I'm going, of course.

It's as if it hears my footsteps
and needs no company
as that old elevator
shoots down to level 3.

Every single morning
as I approach its doors
it disappears pretty quick
down to those lower floors.

I swear it sees me coming
and doesn't like the look
so as I rush to hitch a ride
the **** thing slings its hook.

The doors are on a system,
computerised I read.
But whenever I get near them
they change the ****** speed.

I stand alone here waiting
and it just isn't fair
'cause I am stuck up here
when I want to be down there.

It speeds down to the bottom
and sits on the ground floor
you can here it taunting you
with the movements of the door.

Then after what seems ages
it gradually starts to rise
giving me some hope at last
as I can hear the noise.

Then it makes a pit stop
at another floor
and seems to take forever
to open and close its door.

Each and every level
seems to get a viewing
as if it wants to **** some time,
with my mind it is *******.

And then it reaches the sixth floor
as if it is my saviour
and finally opens up the doors
as if it's doing a favour.

It seems as if this machine
requires me to stalk
so now I've found the stairwell
and instead I'm going to walk.