19:19 Cheap Shot.

Although I’m nearly caught up,
my poetry is rank. It speaks of easy endings
bawdy images and skank. The best I can,
on notice short, is to throw the thoughts aside,
and settle for mere verse and rhyme, and
metre of that sort.

I need this for my heart and soul, as the lover
needs her beau, to prove to her she has the stuff
that others can’t bestow. For this is all the ego’s crush
to keep up with the rest, and so she writes this fucking shit
she know’s is not the best.

And now I’m done and in the clear, caught up
with each and all. My head is high, my fingers inky
but hidden in my shawl. Until in counting retrospect
I check each word and verse, and realize I forgotten
one, and the poet’s gears reverse.

[I forgot to write the 8th poem :(]