'tis nothing like the
witching hour, stirs demons who
may, my soul, devour
so in this time of
stress and dread, I loathe to lay
my tortured head
for as I toss and
as I turn, my questions all
left unanswered churn
though novels I read
and poems write, my mind may
find no rest tonight
though I strive and though
I strain, questions yet plague my
ever ceaseless brain
'should I this thing?' and
'did I that one?', until my
weary mind is numb
so in the day I
do exhaust my hands, so not
the night, mind commands
as in this time of
stress and dread, I loath to rest
my weary head
'tis nothing like the
witching hour, stirs demons who
may, my soul, devour
YOU ARE READING
What I 'Felt' To Say Was...
Poetry"Poetry can be therapy, so shut the door and get comfortable, we've been through a lot since our last visit. Glad to see you brought coffee. Just a reminder, I know this is expensive, but like life there are no guarantees. I do expect to stir s...
