The Last Day

It may just be the last day,

That I sit and simply muse,

The given art of wordplay,

Is starting to confuse,

I may not solve a problem,

But I may make someone smile,

So for now I’ll keep on writing,

Because that makes it all worthwhile.

Licence To Spill

I may start making cocktails,

Rather than just drinking beer,

The thought of simply settling down,

With a cocktail, brings me cheer,

Though this means buying odd things,

That I may never use again,

Plus waking up with hangovers,

With Celery in my brain.


Tired, cold exhaustion,

She fleets the morning call,

Been too long since she had a friend,

So long now since her fall,

Irreverence much easier,

Than trying to conform,

Where being odd and different,

Seems now to be the norm,

Poetically misled,

She dreams of having hope,

Where once again she’ll feel a part,

Not fall apart, she’ll cope,

‘Til then the liquid dreams, of sunshine gleams,

Are drunk just to get by,

Her exhaustion drains, her daily pains,

With hope lost soon, she’ll die.