ghost again
some poets pen in their own blood
their verse rebuffed to red the mud
its sweet song fails for biased ears
and only draws those friendly tears
the garlands come so far and few
then wither ‘fore the twilight dew
so should a stroke not find fair flesh
then sure those laurels meet a thresh
this bitter taste of what was then
now finds my words unseen again
they dance like bright upon the sea
yet naught a praise will come to be
their worth and virtue fail to hatch
responses, short a back to scratch
thus why do I press hard, this fight?
cuz damned if I don’t live … to write
I mean, damn … how I love to write.
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