If that title is too long-winded for you to understand
That’s grand
‘Cos I had a fair deal of trouble myself
Damn near left it on the shelf
A poem with a title that makes the reader pick it up
& sit
Read ’til they’re red in the face
From the all too real pace
All about this ‘poet’ coming out with a line
While taking a run
In the park
Usually in the evening around nine
I was bored of the humdrum run
So went about turning it into something of a swirl with words
A tad odd
A little absurd I know
But hopefully sublime
Whatever keeps the mind ticking over
Makes those words flow
So I run & I run
But more often than not the words don’t come
You guessed it
A wasted run
‘Til blue in the face
It ain’t no race
The body’s fine
But my poetry
My rhyme, it needs to cross the finish line
As soon as I make it half way up the hill
You see me speaking to myself
My trainer figures I’m on some sort of medicinal pill
He ain’t far wrong
When I’m home & the rhymes not there
It’s nothing but a bitch & a moan all through dinner

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