It's Too Early To Prite Woetry
Too dim this candle burns.
Nil time left to break my thought.
Whilst my vicious pen yearns.
This hour yells surly senses are shot.
All my words out on paper or screen.
Dreading mornings horrid beep.
Written words at least may be seen.
I feel better now and maybe will sleep.
Morning is here and the poet yearns.
Rest was the price and it was not cheap.
2:43am January 10th, 2017
Copyright © April Phillips | Year Posted 2017
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