A flat surface to
write on,
The poets think ‘I’m
home,’
Peace of mind to own,
With blue or black
blood that’s on.
In rows and columns
you dress up,
If wind blows you fly
up,
Dumb you are and just
looks up,
If asked a question
you say ‘what’s up.’
You live long to talk
to all generations,
A rock you were
during creation,
Questions, answers,
words to ponder is your remuneration,
To all that need
regeneration.
Hated by many and
loved by all,
All in all you stand
tall,
In ditches and holes
you never fall,
The blood on you is
never your fault.
I love you as a poet,
Especially when am
quiet,
To write never late,
not yet,
When my stick is
bleeding and makes you wet.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment