POEM

I will pick a pen to write a poem every night,
But just like any night my brain will close very tight,
Half way through the first stanza of a war poem,
All I can I can think of becomes cupid totem.

Even as I managed to get through the first stanza,
I feel like orderings a pizza,
Who will tell me what rhymes with stock,
No doubt about it that I’m stuck.

I can't believe it but I am in stanza three,
I think I will have a cup of tea,
For only a few can write such a line,
In such a short space of time.

I think I will lay my head in the pillow sleeping,
Haven spent the whole night writing,
At least I did not subject my pen to painful biting,
If this rubbish makes sense to you then happy reading.

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