It has been a hundred and seventy
Nine days that I have written a pome,
And its been about the same time
That I haven’t visited my writing dome.
And with each passing day,
I am losing my ability,
Cold, terrified and confused
I am losing a part of me.
Disoriented, I claw at thin air,
Vying for my sanity.
And each day I fight a holy war,
Trying to preserve my humanity.
Poetry is my soul,
On a horse, my shiny noble knight
My words are my comfort,
Without them, die, I might.
And so at my life’s end,
As my life ebbs away, my eyes, all but dead
Will convey all that I couldn’t pen
A million words unsaid, a billion tears unshed.