All my efforts rest in a paper bin, in a crample fold.
Ideas sparkle; blue as lightening.
Yet all my tales have been told.
A grudge held, fueled by poets of old.
I wait on inspiration,
I wait in vain.
I make a girl of unfashionable beauty mine,
hoping she holds infant joy, to lift me out of this gloom.
Then I meet her pain of virgin experience.
I tell her I love her-I lie.
I lie in a bid to covince myslef I mean every lie.
our relationship spirals to friendship, I sigh, relieved?
Yet my tales are still of boyish experience.
I end by rushing blood to my head; I drag, take a swig and sniff.
The belfry signals both joy and sorrow; consumation of death.
Don't funeral bells sound alike? I return to the church for relief.
I give poetry one last glance while prose lays a wreath.
