"sheddad" poems
Antara sheddad a man of letter,
Born to suffer and to write,
For worse or for better,
He thought he was doing right.
Antara found himself in a pickle
Over a mighty promise,
His love went, although fickle,
From a melody, to a hiss.
Antara voiced his mind,
A lustful mouthy dirt,
Mindful he might find
Joy in agony and hurt.
Antara wrote for a nickel,
Not to expect a dime,
Clever and whimsical
With a rhythm and a rhyme.
Antara wrote a little and knew
His audience expected a lot,
He went cold on the few
And on the rest went hot.
Antara wept and laid down tall,
Now out of breath
His dying words call
For life and for death.
Antara lived in rumpus
No home, no rest, no treat
They named after him a campus
A library and a street.
Antara Sheddad lived a helot,
Unfed on Obedience,
A heart of a zealot,
And an ill-fortune expedience.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC