Perhaps by chance, an ode or utterance escapes
only to desecrate upon a good idea
even though I was once prolific for frolics sake
that first rhyme you thought of here ^ sums up my scribbling
reality is difficult to deceive, when only 'I' talk to me
yet plagiarizing my own mind brings just a little freedom.
ideas tossed about like July the 4th in my head
soliloquies recited, cattle prodding sleep away.
despite hiding messages in plain sight
even pointing the way to my inner cretin
always balking, debating then procrastinating
death invites itself to reign in my poetry.
temptation often lingers, those challenges unanswered
oh I do hate a good sonnet
meandering for seven months, writers cramp my favorite affliction
easiest of cycles to break, make a rhyme, toss out an acrostic, regurgitate fiction.
