I read the poems of Balladeer, filled with earthy verse. I read them and want to laugh and cry
I don't know which is worse.
If I could only write verse and erotic rhyme,
Just as Poet deVine, I would you know
And use broken hearts
Just to mark the time.
Now this next set of verse,
Really should have been first,
Moonlight you see,
Inspired me with her thirst.
Darkness just flows from the tip of my pen,
an ink stain on the ebony glass of my soul.
I drink down the despair and then
Pain comes crawling back again
to make me whole
I wish I could write inspiring verse filled
with joy and mirth
but my soul has been killed
my only kindness, the cold earth.
Wordsmiths hammer their words into shape
Tailoring their words to fit.
My verse is more like emotional rape,
No one wants to feel it.
Poems inspire, lover's delight,
Passions fire grows, burning bright.
I find that I envy the verse these
Wordsmiths write for not only delight,
but to instill emotions in others.
My verse instills only fright
And warnings to children from their
But I'll keep at this rhyme
Until there comes a time
When the words of each peer that
I hold so dear
Will trip from these lips of mine.
Patience is a virtue, but virtue has never been one of my redeeming qualities.