Your brain on poetry desires,
The E in happy,
That makes tidy your mind,
And like a last puzzle piece,
Threads three lines,
That ties an image together, completely.
Your brain on poetry forgets,
The Ohrin in orange,
Oh!
Dear, it's already gone out one ear,
And your deaf in the other,
Well, unless you're Welsh,
Unless you're a palynologist,
Then you might write about the lack of
Orange trees with a sporange on Mount Blorenge,
Indeed.
Your brain on poetry desires,
The Ill-e in silly,
Even though, it's more grave than cheeky,
To catch an intense malady.
Your brain on poetry forgets,
The Ulf in wolf,
Oh!
Right, it's already dragged,
A howl out of you,
And it would most of us too,
Well, unless you're most wanting of a back-scratching,
Unless you're most wanting of the metallic,
Of something fresh and red,
On your lip,
Then you might write about the kinship between a
Wolf and werewolf, and werewolf,
And did I mention a wulf?
Would you be opposed to me uploading short stories to this collection as well?
YOU ARE READING
Waiting for the Rain to Fall
PoetryPoems that twine thread around the broken bits of a soul, that fling umbrella lips into beaming buckets and kind of just make you want to say, "life is beautiful, isn't it?" - a totally unbiased review from me, the author.
