It's half past midnight
and the wind's getting gusty.
I'm rusty,
not lusty.
The skin on my poetry
is becoming dusty.
It needs moisture, life, inspiration
but sitting alone
causes mental constipation.
Give me some passion.
It's not out of fashion
but I'm not getting my fair ration
of oomph...
So I'll crawl into bed
and hope that my head
becomes a collection box.
That it rocks
with the weight of some words
strung together in an orderly manner
and not dropp a clanger
by filling it full of puerility.
What futility!
Francesca Johnson
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-s-half-past-midnight/
