As Good As His Last

The Mush from the Hill

A poet is only as good as his last poem

And I’ve lost my words

On a path that has strayed from sight

With dark shadows hanging on to me

My head bows under the weight

Of guilt, anger and pain

My legs wade through a fog

Of vowels and consonants

Jumbled and tangled non scenically

I am fake; I am fraud

I know this because I’ve been told

By the ghosts of my dark mind

They whisper, always whisper

Of my impending fall

And fall I do, over and over

Coming to rest in a bloody pool

Of garbled gibberish

Neck deep in debased humiliation

Copyright © JRFC April 2019
Image from Pixabay

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