Silly Poem

Write, write, write —

write some more.

Free these feelings,

open the door.

I’m nothing special,

I’m not the best.

I’m not perfect.

I need rest.

But rest never

charges me,

on the floor

I start to plea.

For energy

to move my form,

to clean and cook,

to weather storms.

It’s not storming,

I’m calm inside.

Oh how I wish

to bury pride.

Little rhymes

I try to make,

more than I’ll share

for goodness sakes!

This poem stinks,

but hey I wrote!

That’s the point

you silly oaf!