My Poetry Sucks
My poetry sucks
I’m so tired of writing
My fingers are sore
My poetry sucks
I’m becoming a bore
Sticking a verse
In front of your face
Oozing with love
All over the place
Creamsicle colors
Metaphors thick
Wasting your time
Making you sick
Finding a title
Spending the time
Just like this poem
Something to rhyme
Or it could be free-verse…
Drifting on metallic clouds in copper spoons
dreaming in patterns of silhouette shadows
and my foot falls asleep
Maybe a Senryu
Read at your own risk
Dumb crap being written here
Vomit bags needed
Perhaps a Haiku
Softly floats the bird
Atop morning glory skies
Damn thing pooped on me
Or a Tanka, a Sonnet
A Villanelle or an Assterring
The last one is nothing
I made up the thing
So you see I’m no poet
Least not anymore
For what you are seeing
Is what you abhor
And I’m not complaining
What you believe
My pen is on empty
I’m ready to leave
I’m so tired of writing
My fingers are sore
My poetry sucks
I’m becoming a bore
I know what you're thinking
this one I could miss
Can somebody tell me
who is this damn Chris
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2018
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