I've been writing verse/ poetry for about nine years. Some times to music, sometimes to my mind. For me it's the only stress relief. In fact my new stuff, I call truth relief
It's an innie and outie in reverse.
Worse, is the fact it's an object of display of my curse!
Worse, it's the way that it appears like it hurts!
Worse, when it talks to me in French words!
I'm confused - is this a result of that pink juice?
Set me to think that the doctor was not loose
In his head, while he's full of pure abuse
That's what the guy said when came out looking obtuse!
"Couldn't refuse", what my insurer said
"There's a limit for the poor. Let them all go dead!"
My belly's button's red, like Rudolf's nose.
This is another example of my psychedelic prose!
Joe Budden