WHAT DO YOU WANT?

As I sat before my desk

the sky cleared,

and the shadow of my raised pen
grew ever bolder,

as if rising through the surface
and then rhythmically sweeping a reapers arc
through any ideas of poetry.

Distracted through observation,
poetry became prose.
But then I froze
and slipped back to my lifelong desire
to make it rhyme,
to make it mine
to make my lines
sublime.

Divine.

Oh hell;
just stretch a bit of time
do a stanza crime
shove out some words
as valued as turds,
life statements
of time on a street
in a pub
eating grub
fucking a bird
acting the nerd;
following the herd
with undistilled words.

Witty can rhyme with shitty
gritty does not equal pretty,
eloquent is oft’ repellent,
but be it poetry or prose
be on your toes
'fore the wave of applause
with a tsunami clause.
From the audience that knows
You are on your own.
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