The candle of my words
Here, I wait at the portals door.
Waiting birth a poem or more.
And viewing paths to different shoals
Each word flares to light my goal.
The lights light up the bright and sad.
Some are good but most are bad
I write a lot about my dreams.
At least to me that's how it seems.
With I, the source of fantasy,
Agony and ecstasy
And though I wait the poem to be,
The pregnancy tires me.
I groan and moan upon the bed.
Giving birth, in pain and dread.
To thoughts of, will it live or die?
And either one, question why?
If one it twits my vanity.
The other spits profanity.