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I Write Bad Poetry

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[center][b]A Gift Wrapped in Brown Paper on My Front Stoop[/b][/center]

Of course I know it came from you
Although I did not see you there
Or know how the gift that came from you
Dew dampened, reached my bottom stair

Did you come ducking through the hedge
Knocking off your cap
Drop the box on the step
And casually whistle away?

Was it a stern delivery
That required the proper dignity
And so with measured step
You left it there and marched away?

Did a songbird speak to you
From my garden’s space
Excite your heart
Redden your face?

I know the gift would be
A treasure beyond value
The horn of the final unicorn
A new born star, a tear

I balk to open it, though
Until I see
Exactly how
You gave it to me
61-69, F
10 replies
Mar 5, 2018
Bushmanoz · 56-60, M
You write poetry, People will either like it or not. But give yourself some credit for being able to write poetry at all. Also, I thought it was good
Mamapolo2016 · 61-69, F
[@446022,Bushmanoz] thank you...poetry is a guilty pleasure
TheProphet · M
Don't open it hon. It's a bag of shit.
Mamapolo2016 · 61-69, F
Not if you’re going to screw up every gift I get. If you can get that in hand, come on down!
TheProphet · M
[@663519,Mamapolo2016] In your World there would be no bags of shit on the porch hon.🌹🎁
Mamapolo2016 · 61-69, F

A law was made a distant moon ago here:
July and August cannot be too hot.
And there's a legal limit to the snow here
In Camelot.
The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot.
By order, summer lingers through September
In Camelot.
Camelot! Camelot!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But in Camelot, Camelot
That's how conditions are.
The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.
In short, there's simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
In Camelot

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Updated: 1 mth ago
Categories: Music, Poetry
Content Rating: Non-Adult
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