I have seen many a horrors, about which I cannot write,
The fear that I may make these emotions alight,
On the wrist, this knife excites.
But who am I kidding..?
It is only to protect this gutless heart of mine, my dear,
It is to avoid being tragedy's wright.
The time was such...
When I had nothing to rouse, demising espouse,
Many a bouts of those waterless douse...
It ACHES me... to think,
how one can grow so old of his home,
When 17 years, passed in that same house.
.
.
.
.
Curious about my past, you be might,
I was but a plightful pawn,
With thornful ways, no armor in sight.
Had paths too many, but none to walk on....
Such a wish to die, but nothing to choke on...
The torch of hope I dare, do not ignite,
My fears I tell, I dare do not recite...
So, my dear....
Where should we begin my contrite?
Should I tell you of my falseful crimes?
When I was with her... those times?
Should I speak about these poems I write...
THESE TWO CENTS RHYMES I CITE,
listening... to these deafening chimes?
How about-.... Yes... YES...
The time....
||When enough darkness I saw, I feared the light. ||
no- nO- NO- NO!....
Pardon me for I went too far to me to eit,
I'm closing off about my past-
YOU CAN INDICT THIS STREIT...
BUT I AM A GUTLESS MAN, senor...
TO MY PAST IS ONE, I WOULD NEVER REQUITE.
Signing off- (tearing the paper)
The Gutless Poet



