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”