Poetry

Poetry is not my passion ‘Tis my commotion Poetry is not my emotion ‘Tis a seduction Wombs of time, when fertile, When heart and mind in rhythm A ghastly nightmare sneaks Within me and compels, write. Then, I am enchanting on white You call it a poem, right Poetry is my expression ‘Tis not my fashion Poetry is regression ‘Tis not my intention Comes with chime when asleep With my past, scattered, that I keep. Intruder heartily speaks With me and instructs, décor... Then ugliest I adore You call it a poem, right O my suffering, You are the poetry for the world to enjoy And for me freedom from pain, me a silly decoy