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.