A poster boy for disappointment

Poor Form

I sit and think; rinsing rancid words from my tongue to my pen, to only lend them poor form, I bend my brow for a spell and dwell on the ale-stupor-rooted docility that's inflicted me, Then something shifts, a mumbled phrase drifts from my lips to my pen bending wrist. I flirt with the new notion, fumbling for the least lax syntax, to seek to attach reverence to each line, Sometimes it works, most times it falls at the first, words are restless, they don't sit still for the best will in the world. Yet stuck behind every rhyme that I find too terse, skirts some honest mantra rapt in antithetic verse.

Date: 17-10-2015