A poem of Swagger
One writes sometimes to test the limit of artistry, behold rhyme, rhythm, clarity and wordsmithing.
I’m feeling like a poet
Bosom full of gems
Imma spill with no impunity
Life fleeced sanity
Bore a boy
leaves, he’s to wrestle with no affinity
They said edge of tomorrow
Brings uncertainty like calamity
Upity forward, no unity backwards
Pity the fools, songs void of camaraderie
One by one
The rhythm of winter, claims casualty
A return to the caveman
His brave men, brace for my fifty
No cents, or whole dollars
Affluence just so plenty
I’m the dawn of the nightingale
Bringing to the party, the face of her mare
Whispers so succulent,
ass shake like fever
Yet I’m the author of the nightmare
Shakespeare in my consult,
He wants to know my purpose
“Why pen to paper
Rhymes void of prose”
No reply, no surrender
I lack control that makes her sing longer
My work is done, when the windows close
I am neither librarian nor foe
I come and I go
Repent, relent, and visit slimy’s serpent
She is in the streets of Mordor
With odor as ancient
Everyone changes skin
When the justice’s pin visits.
I’m a sole survivor
I lie, cheat, and kiss, hug death
The picture teller says different
But the thick pot of my life’s stew
Bears witness to my treachery.
As the song goes:
“I’m a savage”