candyeyesores

Here's a poem.


Ventriloquist

What hasn't the poet written about?
Nature's beauty shouts
The lovers and their quarrel
Weeding out sins from the floral
Bed

A poem will sum up lives
You can almost empathize
Maybe some light it will shed
Don't strain though, lay down your head
Rest

So what can I write
With fear of being too contrite
(Shh, careful, copying is a temptress)
He stole the words from me, in a strike of preemptiveness
Pulse

It's just making a pattern with words
And what are the letters, just herds
The poet stole from me, don't ask me how
I promise it is him I think of now
Sleep