An old poet

 

I want to write a book, and write poetry books,
But I can't even get the people to take a look.
Nevertheless the comments that feed my soul,
Feed my ego and my appreciation is never so, so.


Sick of growing old when all I want to do is die.
Time to give up on giving up and give it a try.
Will I write a master piece, before I cease,
Or just throw away the piece I tried to write before I decease?


It’s life or death or death or writ.
If it ain’t in me, then I’ll find a lift.
A way to raise my dead corpse once more,
To write a book, or die a bore.


(C)2023 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.