Out in the Park, on the bike, the chain whipping past
The last throws of summer, before the chilling winter blast.
The squirrels run amuck through the leaves loud as thunder
Are they having fun, yes this thought I do wonder.
I saw a murder in the Park, of course it was crows
And I must have counted 20 or 30 of those.
The sound is was haunting, eerie, spooky, yet cool
I can tell that old Alfred was far from a fool.
The light is waning and night draws closer still
Remember these thoughts, I always will.
Don’t you hate trying to write poetry? It seems like you get stuck in this silly rhyming and it never ends. I know that there are other styles and I never seem to find the time to actually explore them enough to learn their form. Sometimes I just want to capture those feelings in words for posterity sake.
Million times better than I ever could have done. I can't write it to save my life. I make a better hostage than poetry writer.
ReplyDeletegrins
I almost deleted this post and was going to re-write it.
ReplyDeletewe all know what kind of hostage you would be /grins
I think you could write wonderful poetry - just not those limeric nonsensical ditties