I should write more poetry of my own,

But I’m too lazy.

Reading the amazing talent of others I follow,

Only further berates me.

I think in rhyme, at times,

But rarely is it wrote.

This loneliness of mine,

Ensures that hardly a word is spoke.

Except to myself in the solace of night,

Solace? What solace? Yeah right!

I’d best quit,

While I’m still ahead.

Lest I write so poorly,

That I’d stir the dead.

So I lay me down, 

In my empty bed.

Reminded clearly why,

My lover has fled.

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