I write poetry
This is me
Trying to be
All I can be.
What do you see
In my poetry
When you read
The thoughts of my head?
He said
With such angst, with dread.
This is it
My mild mannered wit
That leaves a fit
Within my brain
Like a train
Wreck in the rain.
But who is to blame?
What ahve you to say
on this fine day
Without words in the way?
(A poetic form that does not pay)
The bills
Despite my ills
Or lack of poetic skills
That have gone south,
Left my mouth
Without a sound.
Nothing above ground
Can be found
Or unwound,
Now left lying around.
I could not be saner
Don't berate or blame her.
My nom de plume is Cramer.

03/13/2006