I know i-ron pyrite ain’t gold
I don’t wizard nothin’ ’bout poetry
I write poetry
call it poetry
label it poetry
a little bud
in the eye of the beholder,
or maybe yes
I, poet is still born.
( Yep. it’s -g.w )
Lord have mercy, I have stepped into many varmint snares and viper holes while looking and experimenting, as I wander down the path of explorers, while on the road of Calvary. This narrow passage called The Way.
Scars? They’re only scars. And know more are to come. It don’t hurt. Silently I scream so the devil doesn’t hear and delight in the tip. Tears edge the rim but don’t overflow, ’cause my bottle’s full. Laughter billows up saving the filled cup before one more droplet joins in. Fortitude.
Curse God she said
Silly woman. Cover your eyes.
No need for you to see.
You stay here,
I’ll go there
and cover my ears instead,
[Note to myself: when I’m in a mood, don’t publish.]
[Note to myself-2: I’m in a mood always. moods keep changing.]
[Note to myself-3: Don’t publish. Ever.]
[Note to myself-4: I doed it anyway.]
[Note to myself-5: know what the word ‘stupid’ means?]
[Note to myself-6: yes. it’s boiled vegetables.]
[Note to myself-7: no, thats ste–…… I. rest. my. case.]