The Insanity of Poetry
I never did like rhyming,
it's all in the darn timing.
Words now just pop out on their own,
all my good senses have simply flown.
Most of my pals don't speak anymore,
they find me such a big, dumb bore.
I tell them it is not my fault,
it's Poetry Soup that caused this assault.
Give a forum, give a soapbox,
that's when I find opportunity knocks.
Help me somebody ! I'm losing my friends,
throw away my pencils and all of my pens.
Goodbye hubby, children and kin,
This could be a beginning..or maybe an end.
No meals have been made, no ironing been done,
I'm way too busy, just having fun.
I seem to sit here in a daze,
thinking up yet, another phrase.
I'm on this ride, a slippery slope,
Soup, this is your fault, is there no hope ?
I've made up my epitaph, it reads as follows :
"Here lies a dope who spoke only in riddle,
She could never seem to find the middle,
of sanity and reality
which,
inevitably led to her own finality. "
Copyright © Gail Blakeley | Year Posted 2010
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