I DON'T WANT TO WRITE A POEM ANYMORE
The Cid
Savor the release of my ballpoint,
Thy wish has been granted.
It's an abrupt thrash on my door;
I don't want to write a poem anymore.
I intersected with poetry,
I was giving it my best shot.
Beyond restriction,
I demonstrated the principles—
Discarding my composure.
But living souls,
Euer pneuma cannot infer.
Whereas its blemish
Is all you could discern.
Defect corresponding
To the black stain
In your black shirt,
To a charcoal covered
With a coal-black substance
Called ash.
Wash away the raven tint
Coming from my pen,
By and by, the rain will pour
And rinse the stratus clouds.
It's my gray matter
That would be overlooked by thou
Because once I stop,
I will stop for all future times.
Enough! I quit!
In my chamber
Formed by my snippets,
There are rhymes,
There are secrets!
Cryptic memos posted on the door;
I don't want to write a poem anymore.
