Haunted

The ghosts of poets past, haunt the margins of my page.

They snicker to themselves about my bad spelling and run-on sentences.

I play the part I am given, just an actor on the stage,

As each line written breaks down a few more of my defences.

 

 

If I could paint the world with their masterful words,

And if my pen were too spill it’s guts on this virgin white sheet,

It would crawl under your skin like the grassland burrs,

And all the world would lie down at your feet.

 

 

But the night wears thin and my thoughts grow lean,

My head is starving for some laughter and a willing ear,

So I don’t write the words that fill my dreams,

I simply hum to myself in the darkness as I hold me near.

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