I keep a little book,
Where I write every word
That I place on my Opuss
So that they can be read and heard.
But it's beginning to get full.
And I'm starting to run out of ink.
I think it needs replacing,
Before its gets up to its brink.
It can't just be any note pad.
No, I want it to be the best.
Soft leather, lined and bound.
Where my poetry's laid to rest.
©Odd
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Just a some what "odd" girl, living in what feels like a glass box. Hello Opuss, the savour of my sanity. my little private world amongst a life of being watched and watching.
You sit and you think What opuss to write You ponder all day You stay up all night Thinking of things You're writing them down Reading them through You're wearing a frown It doesn't look right You...
I love to write; I love the way the pen moves across the page; I love the illegible scribbles of my mind; the formation of words, from the complexity of thought.
What if I write a poem at night. With the moon in sight. With the dark room lighten by a small light. Making that paper and those words in sight. I get ideas at night and I can't write it right away.
I write to many opusses. Each and every day. I write so many opusses. I have a lot to say. I write so many opusses. This I must confess. As one day my opusses. Will simply be the best.
Gone are the days. The mystical ways my mind would play. The inspiration I would find from a topic on my mind. The kind way my brain would relay a message. The relationship of a related heritage.
I'm popping off for a little while To have a rest and revive my style, My little head is really bare Like Hubbard's cupboard there's nothing there.
A sudden wave Of inspiration Out of pure silence I just wrote to find out A small phase Of screwy relationships And now that I'm back on track I'm writing more and more I'm excited to see What I...
What is this about, What does this mean. I'm quite unsure, If it's being seen. What is the purpose, Of this quick rhyme. Is it to prosper, To live for a long time. Am I writing, For likes or love.
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