From my bed- POEM

United States Army Center for Health Promotion...
Image via Wikipedia

Tucked in a hospital neatly sanitized

Stowed away from society in a medical compromise

Between the forces of destiny, decay and medical molecular action

Awaiting the prognosis as I am soundly exorcized

Grand delusions realistic illusions and promise of hope

Lift my mood when every other chemical has tried and failed

Prayer helps, so do online afar friendly people,

Hang on buddy, get back on track after being derailed

We need you more than your needers did

We love you more than any of your lovers will

Your dreadful prose, mundane wit, hilarious code

Have made you a daily part of our life though online still

Blog on, dog gone, be inspired, be still

Calmly heal, than slowly mend

We will wait with patience

Till your hospice stint will painless end.

My Stupid Poetry

Every week I write a poem,

Thinking how cool I could be.

A 21 st Century Lord Byron,

Writing poetry could do the trick for me.

Party Invitations and Fame Galore,

Lord Byron used to have this and all more.

But poetry died, and Byron died much earlier in disgrace.

His aristocratic funeral attended by an empty caravan.

Harry Potter may have rejuvenated the novel,

Bringing back poetry is too much for One man.

So turn your head, and swipe your card.

Modern age civilization aint no place for ahh bard.

Let you drink and have soda water,

Pre Packed Hangover remedies the morning after.

Caught up in a material world.

Dead artists are worth their weight in gold.

Stupid poetry, are all ahh I can offer you for today.

Click F5 to refresh, or Control Tab to go away.

(photo credit-Lord Byron at age 25 (1813 portrait by Richard Westall)

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