"amended" poems
She earned the title Nine Days Queen,
But hitherto, she was just Jane.
Just Jane, and she had no idea
That when she married the son of a duke,
A plot was forming around her to steal the crown.
A crown she did not yet wear,
But inherited when the King was gone.
She rose to power instead of Mary or Elizabeth
Through an amended line of succession;
She was never meant to be Queen.
The plots and plans and goals of others
Led to the end of Lady Jane Grey.
Mary conquered the throne with little effort
And Jane was one of many to be sent to death
By the woman history calls ****** Mary.
Nine days was the length of Jane’s reign,
Unscrupulous were her advisors.
Just Jane, she had no idea what she was:
A pawn in the games of those around her,
And she was never meant to win.
Sep 17, 2021
Sep 17, 2021 at 2:24 AM UTC
Sat on the sidewalk.
A sandwich board conveyed a message,
it was penned in his blood.
The darkest dog's sat between his legs.
Crouching reluctantly at his sad master's side.
So many people passed him by.
Not one single soul ever met his eye.
And so she came,
parked herself on the pavement,
his pavement.
She smiled at him,
stroked his dog,
whose hue instantly became amended.
His darkest dog wore a coat of gold,
donated by affection.
She wanted not a lover,
and he was grateful for a friend.
Nobody ever gave him the time of day.
She made him sparkle,
by sharing hers.
Fresh hot coffee flowed from his mug.
Well a heat protected paper cup.
She gave him chocolate and a hot sausage roll.
The woman with the caring streak and that Godforsaken ***
Her actions made him whole.
(c) Livvi
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Near a town of history untold
Where everyone knows each name
Wooden behemoths - obliviously old
Each unique but each the same
It was meant to be a perfect day
Of tranquility through the trees
Instead, the sky is brood with grey
And the leafs flow as they please
Alone, in nature's splendor spilled
In a rainy wilderness, seldom seen
The birds and insects grow suddenly still
In a spread silence of the green
Like eyes embedded in your back
You sense the stare of something sour
The mood hurries to horrid black
As you quiver into a cower
In bending branches blended
Creeping in creases - camouflaged
Nature's imbalance to be amended
In the forest's full mirage
Witness a terror appearing
Frantically floating from afar
Emerged in echoes and vaguely veering
Black, bleak and bizarre
A malevolent, monstrous maw
Snarls of hunger, habit, and hate
A malodor of meat, reeking raw
A violently increasing heart rate
From frozen still to fearfully shaking
You are manically mesmerised
Your pupils promptly dilating
As you and the beast lock eyes
Your meaningless attempt to run
From a stride to a collapse
The beams above crown the sun
As the twigs around you snap
A soar of pain as you hit the ground
Chest cavity cracked open
As you faint, you hear the sound
Of a language never spoken.
Gutted and gargling gore
Eaten by nature's nightmare
Convulsing on a forest floor
Indifference chokes the air
It's just another perfect day
Of tranquility in the trees
The rain has stopped, the leafs still sway
With the cooling, comfortable breeze
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC
1357
“Faithful to the end” Amended
From the Heavenly Clause—
Constancy with a Proviso
Constancy abhors—
“Crowns of Life” are servile Prizes
To the stately Heart,
Given for the Giving, solely,
No Emolument.
—
“Faithful to the end” Amended
From the Heavenly clause—
Lucrative indeed the offer
But the Heart withdraws—
“I will give” the base Proviso—
Spare Your “Crown of Life”—
Those it fits, too fair to wear it—
Try it on Yourself—
2.8k
The crystal was perfectly aligned.
It exposed an image of the day I left seamlessly.
But it also echoed the future,
the design of tomorrow.
I wouldn’t follow my wildest dreams,
but I couldn’t say the misuse was improbable.
To the next phase in my elegant maneuver,
I gather the strength from my abysmal insides.
Wide open were the gates of hell.
I withheld.
Then continued,
as the outline of forever,
forever guided me.
Time was traveled.
And as passing eras bettered my intellectual design,
I redefined the reality of Sir Hawkins.
Time travel.
So true.
My speed was increasing,
as was my very corpus.
*And as it did,
so I transcended.*
Amended such as our legitimate antiquity
of the dickity desire.
The feeling of an outwordly choir
singing you to sleep while injecting you
with futuristic methyl-amphetamines.
I dreamt of better things,
but too late.
For I've descended into tomorrow,
and the decisions of the borrowed souls
will cease to follow.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And all round Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
Down there to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s County Yay!
Yull see ‘em rambling near Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.
Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.
Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all do hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.
So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.
Paul Butters
(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
© PB 2\5\2016. Slightly Amended 14\4\2023.
Apr 14, 2023
Apr 14, 2023 at 3:09 PM UTC
THE SIGN arrived, with masking tape,
stuck upon the door.
TRASH BAG WARNING
it yelled
(with smiley face)
~I cannot see the floor!~
A sigh was heard
- by all the house -
the sign read ALOUD, once more.
**CRASH
&
BANG,**
soon followed it, as my Batgirl
>slammed< her door!
And maybe,
there was a curse or two;
Beneath her breath repeated.
But
life went on,
with nothing wrong &
the pile of stuff depleted!
Although,
it took the loudest hour,
'til Batgirl opened her door.
Trash bag tied with masking tape
& 'the amended sign' re-applied
***"NB:
Holy tidy rooms,
Batgirls' done it!
DONE & DUSTED***
Whilst the P.S. made us both smile...
**(Obviously not literally dusted, Mum,
but even you, The Joker, can get the gist!)"**
For-given the prior scene of teenage devastation... Batgirls' reply had been superhero swift!
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
Sinister ministers deliver scriptures per
Illicit missions to present religious works for intrinsic worth
Men amended an "Amen" to end to the verse
Then apprehended the script they knew Kemet had written first
I’m in the blemish my kin is a part of the sin it hurts
Given my hair and skin were both considered dirt since the birth
It’s printed in their gospel I’ve been getting worse since the curse
It’s vivid plagiarism for the villain to get the perks
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 12:36 AM UTC
i'm a nomad gone defective,
heart attack erased, amended.
i'm a dead leaf riding the crest of the wind,
marking time by exs and favorite beverages.
i carry on the bluebird's song,
whisper nothings aside from sweet.
you planted me within your sheets,
green grow the leaves, winter, good luck with your war.
let needle perpetually lock in groove,
white wine nights that turn into levitating sunrises.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 10:07 AM UTC
Dear last meaningful kiss,
It's hard to start this,
because long ago I was in such a bliss,
I dont know what to write,
but this cigarette in my sight,
is counting down the end of our night
The guitar is playing its final thoughts
and I reflect on the what to do and not's,
as I start to write the script again.
People stare at me as I write this aloud,
for I want everyone to know, I am not proud,
that this even exists,
but it does.
Your face is what haunts me the most.
When I stare at the coast,
fantasies of memories arise,
but vanish as I feel the falseness of lies,
creep upon me,
like a villain in a play,
but these thoughts I must put away.
They won't get me anywhere.
Except a lonely stare,
into peoples hearts that I seem to try and confide,
but in this rule book I'm writing I must abide,
and leave your side.
I dont think you get what this hurts like,
to ride a bike,
into nothingness of blank words,
that I reflect upon in past writing.
But back to the script I keep fighting,
there is no shading or lighting,
just another poem that I follow.
Dear the love that was never true,
I wonder if your writing too,
or if you even know you,
cause you like to dance around this heartbreak,
like an old soul tries to avoid youth, just for the sake,
sake of wondering what to do next.
As I write this script on my invisible paper,
I have to remember too add the hooded caper,
that's nestled in the shadows, that I frankly never see,
and add reluctantly.
I will look back and think that part wasnt necessary,
but my heart and eyes are wary,
of knowing when to put down my pen.
This will be a sad thing to write,
because night,
is sadly ending,
with the stars starting to fade,
I must abide,
with the fears that reside,
that I must tap onto this screen,
and make sure in this last hurrah, you dont seem mean.
Dear the one who use to be the spark in my nod,
I hear many applaud,
but I wont let myself smile, for this love story shouldn't have ended,
or maybe it hasnt just yet, and just has bended.
Mind is amended,
the wrong doings of past fames,
I can remember the actors I write, but not their names.
As I put my script into print,
and watch the masses on their screen,
"I must say I hate the ending myself,
but it started with an alright scene."
From the heartbroken kid,
with love.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
fruitful fusion attempt is futile
check initials, official refusal
mutual solution brutal removal
essential pupil proving useful
amplified emphasis is corrected
amended but certified detested
time invested in suggestion
hard headed and hectic method
confusion of mission emotion
a hand woven illusion implosion
caution in frustration spoken
no objective inside exploding
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
THE true faith discovered was
When painted panel, statuary.
Glass-mosaic, window-glass,
Amended what was told awry
By some peasant gospeller;
Swept the Sawdust from the floor
Of that working-carpenter.
Miracle had its playtime where
In damask clothed and on a seat
Chryselephantine, cedar-boarded,
His majestic Mother sat
Stitching at a purple hoarded
That He might be nobly breeched
In starry towers of Babylon
Noah's freshet never reached.
King Abundance got Him on
Innocence; and Wisdom He.
That cognomen sounded best
Considering what wild infancy
Drove horror from His Mother's breast.
1.6k
Drunk, on love.
Drunk, with you.
Drunk, without you.
Drunk, being with you.
Or drunk, being without you.
The outcome is different.
Drunk, being with you.
makes me happy.
Drunk, without you.
usually refers,
to being in pain.
Drunk, when something,
has usually changed.
Drunk, on the million memories,
over all the years.
Drunk, spilt over,
so many,
many years/tears.
Drunk, by you.
Drunk, from you.
Drunk, of you.
Drunk, on those moments,
that made me once smile.
Drunk, until my heart, isn’t as,
F r a
g I
l
e.
Drunk, with you.
Drunk, without you.
Drunk, on my own.
Drunk, until the pain eases,
From the hurt,
that you gave,
that I received,
Drunk, to wash away,
all those feelings,
while I grieve.
Drunk, to forget,
the love you,
once gave.
Drunk, please forgive me,
during this time,
if I rebel, and miss behave.
Drunk, of you,
no more.
Drunk, from you,
no more.
Drunk, only me.
Drunk, no more you.
Drunk, looking forward,
to what’s now, in store
for me.
Drunk, no more.
Now, my heart has healed.
Drunk, not so much needed,
Putting back,
that bottle cap on,
and keeping it sealed.
-Drunk!
© By HF-Whisper
24/5/2021 10:19PM-Amended-16:03PM-11/8/2021
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 2:10 AM UTC
And then there's the blood
But I can't feel my own skin
A knife in the hands of volatility
The sight of my own, estranged
Losing a handle on reality
Although it was never all that firm
I’ve lost the meaning in morality
As well as the meaning in this mortal boundary
Was the knife in my hands cause I'm shaking
In the mirror I stare, my vision is fading
Is it the end again?
The tiles are stained so deep in my masochism
A fitting match to this porcelain heart
The broken lines that I've utter may reflect
the lines that I have etched on myself
Cutting away the innocence or whatever was left
The damage is forever unending
Slipping in the broken pieces and bleeding
In the hours I’ve screamed through the pain awakened
Through the red, white, and black I’m escaping
In remembrance of what I’ve forgotten
Regrets that have could never be amended
Is it the end again?
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Standing straight in the swirling straits,
A bridge - now outdated - whose chains bear great weight and history,
Bejewelled with diamond raindrops that glisten in the winter sun,
Lending the old bridge the look of a semi-submerged crown.
This bridge is a source of pride to the islanders,
Many stories are told of it,
Some are true and some are legend,
But one tale lies inbetween:
That of a giant King chased from the island.
Forced to leap across the boiling straits,
Barely making landfall,
Falling backwards as he did so,
Watching in horror as his crown tumbled to the ground,
Falling into the grey waters.
Many years went by,
And modern ways demanded a bridge.
As foundations were laid a discovery made!
Upon the shore, deep in ancient mud,
Poked out a colossal rusting iron crown,
News broke!
Everyone spoke!
The story was true!
A giant King had once ruled!
So, in honour of this ancient King,
The design was amended to honour this crown,
And that is why this bridge, in profile,
Resembles the ancient coronet,
Found on the shore of the waters that the Romans failed to cross.
Of course, naysayers claim there was no crown,
Merely publicity seekers who found an old iron fence,
And who contrived a tale with willing locals.
Whichever is true,
The bridge is part of a glorious view,
And stories abound of its construction,
Like the man who walked the length of the chain,
Stopping halfway to take in the view whilst making a shoe!
Or of the maiden who swore that all who crossed would suffer a loss,
As great as they could ever imagine.
This bridge, whose beauty is unsurpassed,
Is now part of a glorious past of truths, lies and legends.
But forever it will stand,
And many more stories it shall inspire,
For it no longer simply links lands,
But now links truth and myth...
Am byth.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
Center pressure on the tip
Of the glassed pleasure,
Release a million particles,
Watch them rest on the air.
Thousands of master dancers twirling, spinning,
Sashaying their paths to refuge.
Inhale, exhale.
The atoms entice, capture.
Pleasuring senses with alluring influences.
Just like a ballerina, trapezed,
Carefully and gracefully
Leaning her swan-like neck
Away from her poor partner,
Afflicted by the contrast of halitosis.
Another focus of pressure:
The last of inconveniences amended.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 8:44 PM UTC
You ask me how I find the time,
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition
I see a toddler swaying, see him to disaster lurching,
Somehow avoided with last second seer-like swerving,
Ten times in a ten foot walk across a patio,
My eyes code red at the incredible risk/reward ratio,
It is nature at it most incredible, miraculous, ordinariness
A young girl of ten wears a pocketbook across her forearm,
In the style of an elderly woman, as she plays with Barbie,
Tho her body immature, her psyche, says note my
Iconology, her accoutrement, texts a message subtly,
I am preteen, I am near woman, treat me accordingly
Dueling iPads in bed is a poem in my head,
rhymes accurate of screen reflections of an
X factor that stimulates my cerebral cortex.
Verbal ointment that I posses can't fix a flat tire,
but sets me up for a personal review, self awareness
Gone mad and with finger, on gas station floor,
In the grime, words are realized/written concretely,
what my heart speaks freely
Within each day, miracles present themselves,
Gauntlets thrown, note them well and be justified,
Visions, external to my physical self,
Yet product of internal chemical reactions
That blow through my veins, swirling,
Word leaves, on a November weekend,
Windswept from a thousand directions,
So you ask me how I find the time,
The question proper be amended,
How do the times find me,
How do I know them,
And why, do I share them
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Would you go back in time
To do or say something different?
Yes.
Even if it didn't change
The course you chose in these last years,
I would do Thanksgiving '09 over again.
Actually, I would redo only one moment:
We were standing in the hallway
Of the house we'd been forced to rent
When all our fortunes had been lost.
You were storming out to greet me
With a frosty, icy glare.
My hand was raised in salutation,
My eyes were both eager and wary.
Before I knew what was happ'ning,
My glasses lay shattered on the floor.
Without a second's hesitation
Or look or exclamation,
I had run out the front door.
I would that I could redo that moment!
And this is how I'd hope it goes:
We meet in the hallway,
And your fist comes towards my face.
But before you can punch
My 21 year old visage,
My hand will stop you
And force you to look into my eyes.
Then I will say, "Mom, I love you."
Maybe your eyes would soften.
Maybe your heart would too.
Maybe you'd choose to try again
At being daughter, wife, mother.
Maybe you'd choose to stay.
And maybe history can't be amended,
Rewritten, retold, or changed.
I just wish my last words
Could've been "I love you."
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
1.
And so, I clamber up the heavy slope
and sit alone upon a wide, flat rock.
I still the voices clamouring hard within
and try to listen to the air settle and breathe . . .
The eagle swoops low, whirring loud beside the rocky outcrop
likening its talons to sustain the hold of life . . . (this line to be amended ...sounds odd)
Leaves quiver silent on massive trees
obedient to nature, yet roots bold outgrown . . .
Shade reaches and stretches genial arms
while feel of dark and moist, fertile ground pervades . . .
Air thick with teeming life the eye can't see
thrums with invisible threads, linking slow tendrils . . .
Quiet sky looms dignified and peers squinted
while sun rays slant into pores, kiss my cheek.
Beetles scamper light along the soft, red sand
and not unlike them, I seek still the answer within . . .
2.
Fierce fire takes up dry tinder, consumes into heated coils
destroying with relish, yet offer cleansing balm . . .
3.
Sudden rains refresh, glance off surprised face, upturned
sweet deluge leaves all sodden to delighted heart . . .
4.
I turn not away
I look up
to receive . . . gladly.
I give such thanks
fall on knees to see . . .
No red sky (as in my nightmares)
No lost sun
No smoky horizon
No grey trees
No dead leaves.
Only yellow sunshine
Only blue sky
Only green leaves
Only clear horizon
as far as the eye can see.
S T, 8 May 2013
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
Create a picture
Try to not let it burn
“Love covers a multitude of sins”
An amended return
Good vs evil ?
The impurity of love
Wrong vs right ?
The question unending from up above
A tunnel of flowers that were meant to grow
A night full of fireflies that were meant to glow
LOVE
A confusing theater in the round
Pure hate of what has been taken
The meaning of love has been tilted and spun A
D R
N O
U
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 2:10 PM UTC
My heart professes perpetuity, and was so faithful to, yet my mortality minds no frame nor memory of you.
This epidermis sheds and skins from disuse; need my heart evidence, might my chill-cracked palms be your proof?
The contours of your constitution, all known by their names, are perhaps now amended by the passage of passing age and days.
The sirens of your voice's sound, awaken me from my dreams; the symphonies of my soul's supplications, now so strange and foreign seem.
My heart professed perpetuity, and is so faithful to, so should this skeleton and its dependents devoice - mon Amour; my heart remains with you.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 6:23 PM UTC
how is the weather today,
the inquiry semi-formally, mumbly delivered
(in pj's, eyes closed, body turned away)
and I softly smile for somewhere here
the poet-boy once wrote
"all my poems begin with weather"
and the composing begins, which of course,
is the decomposing of me-pieces
into nanosecond emotions
that each becomes a verses
until a certain voice
wise whispers "no mas"
my reply, nano bytes of me,
is a forecast personal and tailored
to our GPS location,
the bedroom
"Swami says
looking inside, outside too,
report and retort
it appears quite nice,"
(quietly semi-whispering,
100% chance of snuggling, followed by severe
love making, its arrival foreshadowed by lighting biting and
foot rubbing, and licking winds of heaving breathing,
conditions, we explorers of the caves and local mounts
so oft encounter on our Atlantic captive isle,
and bravely sally forth to face its bullets of kicks 'n kisses)
from under the covers,
we hear swarming,
warning bolts of
snorting derision
but this fire eating ,
most fearsome
nostrillian, reptilian morning beastie noise,
we hardy sailors hardily choose to ignore
but lack of detail is unappreciated so our response amended:
"looking outside, report and retort
it appears quite nice, with 100% chance
of showers of coffee and kisses"
which earns me a sweetie kick
all my poems, the poet-man once wrote,
"all my poems end with whether"
*apparently, this one as well.
oh well, oh well!*
7/8/17 8:14am
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
we've made a promise
not to leave each other's side
to be within and without
for our heart strings to be tied
we've made a promise
to make sure we we're both alright
i felt so much safer than ever before
especially in the night
we've made a promise
to heal what's broken of ours
every cut and wound, amended with kisses and band-aids
not knowing they would quickly turn sour
you've made a promise
not to leave my side
you've cut the strings
didn't mind if they were left tied
you've made a promise
to make sure i was alright
sleepless nights left paranoid
i can't see, nor can i find the light
you've made a promise
to heal me, broken and scarred
yet you've left me in a puddle of my pure blood
it wasn't your intention to damage my core, i forgive easy anyways.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 8:33 PM UTC
Peter (my bf) and I are at Heraclee beach for the weekend.
It’s a little sliver of heaven, about 11 miles south of Saint Tropez.
It’s too early in the season to swim - being breezy and 72°f -
but it’s still the beach. I’m a neophyte beach ***
but I’m willing and eager to learn.
I’m valuable even if I’m not being productive [I self-affirm].
something poetic-ish..
*The sun’s a drowsy tyrant, not yet willing to unforgivingly scorch.
The beach is like glistening sugar, the sand still cool enough to walk, rogue west winds occasionally whip it to an ankle stinging sandpaper.
Majestic umbrella pines are dancing the hula. The shrub-like understory is dominated by drought-tolerant lavenders and rosemary that dense the air with perfume which complements the mediterranean brine.
There’s laughter, off somewhere, like wind-chimes playing clear, just above the ever-roiling sound of the surf. Birds are everywhere, gulls walk around like they’re bored, cory float on air, like kites and petrels skim against the wind, centimeters above choppy waves.
The beach isn’t crowded - French kids are still in school - but a few hardy, oiled, bronzed and sculpted bodies are sprawled on the pristine sand, like offerings to the god of leisure.*
Our hotel has its own private cove, with adirondack wooden lounges under yellow parasols. Pastel blue-vested wait-staffers circle, on the quarter-hour, eager to please.
“Deux (two) American Martinis, S'il te plaît! (please),” I ask, expectantly.
It’s a **** beach, but Peter got an alarmed look when I joked I might go ******* “Annick (my older sister) always goes ******* I informed him.
“I’d like to see that,” he’d chuckled, and when I gave him a raised eyebrow, he amended, “That came out wrong.”
.
.
songs for this..
Summer of Our Love by Triangle Sun
That life by Unknown Mortal Orchestra
The kiss of Venus by Dominic Fike, Paul McCartney
May 27, 2024
May 27, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
POEM - PAPER FILES-II
Clumps of paper around my nest
What can be worse, and what is best?
No one’ll ever think me a genius
They think I’m just a total fanabulistus.
Files and records dwell in our living space
We'll be in a turmoil until most are erased
Much good info is contained here.
Files of many - you have no idea!
The Doomsday Clock now spins toward its close
Around the world one sees many foes
Rumors of war are rumors no more
Papers, files, all over the floor!
Learning new words, many new laws
The most recent gives me much pause
Transhumanism - Do check it on Google
This’ll surely leave your head in a noodle!
People live in my files all day long
I have poets, paupers, authors, Nazis, a full throng
I’ve got murderers, seducers, files of White Magic,
These tales, including emails, reveal much that is tragic.
Scandals abound to be found in my files
Even histories of those known very well
They’ve traveled a long way from us
Surely, now, dwelling in Hell.
Genealogy takes much space in 4-drawer files
The information stretches for miles and miles
Why must I collect dead dust no one sees?
Would that I toss ’em all, just like dead leaves.
Reading does nothing but make me write
Why o why can’t I finish this fight?
I create more as I go along.
Never, never, time for a song.
Writing gets better, but quite like a curse
Everything's quite good, but could get much worse
The Writer's game is not very cozy
Sometimes it appears to be pretty ****** lousy
The hall and bedroom, closets and all
Never see Light - Spring, Summer + Fall
Boxes, old clothing, day/night sight unseen
Time to get over it, and clean, clean clean!
Carol Rae Bradford-Amended 5:17 a.m.
Sunday, 4:00-4:34 a.m. Nov. 23, 2014
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 7:40 AM UTC