This is my attempt
Please don’t laugh at me I plead For poems are hard
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Hah! You think there are monsters under your bed?
Just how childish are you? There are no monsters I said! Nothing that will shout out boo! Don’t believe me if you want But it isn’t under the bed you should be looking No, they go elsewhere for their haunt And it’s you that they will be cooking Mr. Mac was an interesting fella
He was a mystery book sella Nobody quite knew him But he was very slim Almost like a noodle He scared the poodle Mr. Mac the noodle The kids would call out Not knowing how right they were The wind blows
The raven crows In the cemetery things come awake Ghosts creep Fog seeps Those things don’t care for life The dead rise To the red skies Be careful in the cemetery. Excellent she shouts.
Interesting he murmurs Millions staring Some turn away Most keep looking Words flowing behind a mic The center of attention a small girl Rhymes drop out of her mouth like water Stanzas and lines She finishes and rounds of applause start The stars shine brighter that day Standing I fall,
Pain shoots like a bolt I must hold the wall Feeling like a dolt People stare I try not to care This is the life of a cripple With the day ever ending,
And the stories I keep sending, What will I have to eat today? When the sun has gone down, All I can do is frown. Will I have nothing to eat today? As the children snore, And tv becomes a bore, Is there anything to eat today? I check in the fridge, And stand on the ridge, I see there is chicken to eat today! Of the mind
Of the heart Quite kind Always tart What could it be Words from the mouth You will see This won’t go south It’s love That's what I say Comes from above Are you listening, hey!? This is the tale of Anne McGee
Alas it tis be one of woe I will tell it for you to see She died at the hand of her foe This tale may not make you bored For in her stomach do you spot a hole? She was stabbed straight through with a sword. It tis be the man with the mole. Well this is all I have to say There really isn’t much else The crypt is where she lay This story has really explained itself This little story of Anne McGee Too many to count,
She tries and tries There is such a big amount Resorting to lies She slips past Later caught by guards This breath is her last They commit her to the wards |
AuthorI've never written so much poetry in my life. Please don't judge, I know most of it is awful. There are a few hidden gems though, so at least I'm not a total failure. ArchivesCategories |