My Sweet Darling Poet
What goes on in a poets mind?
The swimming of words?
Stuck in pairs of rhymes?
Or rather it be…
that they already linger
waiting to be pieced
like a boot to fine leather.
Dear oh dear, what shall I do?
If rhymes shall indeed, consume you?
Who will cook?
Who will clean?
Shall you make a rhyme of me?
My head spins so,
because I can't let go
our world's co exist
my sweet darling poet.