My brain, my own life inherited
Is littered with rhyme and intent
To write stories divine and tragic
And more, poetic masterpieces
But as I try the thoughts go by
And becoming annoyed that nothing
Is portrayed on the page, nothing
The obstacles of organization
Committing to skills to make thrills
The fingers can't lick the words
Meaningful verses are unheard
By the audience, only the audience
Of a separate plane relish, enjoy
And take the sharing in refrain
That my world is whirled severely
And the art of articulating is
Entirely encumberant of its visage
Masterpieces?
I think I write one pretty good poem occasionally, when I write the nasterpiece, I'll let ya know :)