The thunder rolls around my den
The lightening flashes in my brain
The back and forth ideas and scorn
And immatireal prase.
The wounded egos
Waxing tears
And raging at the scorn
Of better writers
Better words
But bitter were they born.
Yet Truth I read,
Of Anger, Angst
Of Loneliness and Hurt,
Of Beauty, Passion, Sex and Love
Depravity and Dirt.
Of inward souls and outward minds
And Searchers for a Truth
And desperate pens
With kindly wens
All scratching for a proof
Of nubile minds
Who dream in kind
Testoreronic youth
Of wailing widows,old and young
And widowers the same
Of lonely hearts
With songs unsung
They ply thier words again
They leave me sitting, pen in hand,
And ink, idea absurd
To lose the thought
To delve inside
This mishmash of
The word.