Worse than having nothing to say is too much too convey with no words.
A leftover cadence goes right down the line of stunting my growth with these spurts.
Their circular angles from platforms and pulpits are free to be purchased with angst,
But my leaving the branch of an empty paper is a riddle that's rooted in veins.
This amateur prose is a boast I suppose of dichotomous forming intent
A rhyme intervention from mining a mind that is sure to be making no sense.
The most I can do is the least. I distill while I'm drowning from drought in my fable.
I wish I could teach me to learn on my own when I'm willing, all old and disabled.
I won't accommodate critics who sell their discussions or make a heroic retreat.
Cuz my people enjoy these makeshift presentations I somehow have managed to feed.
Casting abstract is a mixture that sprouts multiples playing on words,
Organisms in act intermittent with tact and lavishly love as a first.
This small progression is just an obsession from what I've been coming of late.
An article bastard that more or less flatters himself with a limerick make.
Politely obnoxious infecting subconscious I’m something like hoping a dream.
Or wishing a nightmare an unwanted dire of lively unsightly obscenes.
A choice not to choose might but chew on what's rude and be smoking a bottle of grin.
Which I’m opened to love and in fact not above take a mend and then go it again!
Book of Irving 82431
See all poetry for Patrick Irving #82431