writingpoetry
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Poetry, a weak man’s sword
Forced to yield it to prove my brawn
A joke, a jest I had voiced my displeasure
Reluctant and grumbling I grasped the hilt
The scratch and swish of pen on paper,
Is wind through creaking trees on an Autumn evening
Building,
And shrinking;
Still the same size,
But different forms;
From big and blissful!
To concentrated and sad,
But all the while, so good,
It all feels so good,
On a bed I did repose,
Thinking what to write in prose;
Then at once it came to me,
About what this poem should be.
