By Tony DeLorger © 2013
How perfunctory of me to expound what I say,
in writing so cluttered, my readers wince with dismay,
have I said too much in words from my thesaurus,
buried in meanings so layered they are rediculorous.
As deeper I go into my inner dark self,
the more do my words utter quite something else,
and tangents I've followed just stare all perplexed,
at my mutterings on life, I believe I am hexed.
I've found I'm in circles, betraying my mind,
and delving in places that no light should remind,
my psychological posturing has perhaps gone too deep,
and in explaining my discoveries, I've not paid for my keep.
For all of my readers, if I've left you behind,
I can only apologise and refrain to be kind,
and keep my pen lighter in phrase and in rhyme,
allowing the pleasures of poetic sublime.
Rediculorous, a word that invents to conform,
in poetic renderings that need no pardon or reform,
instead joined by impulselessly and unsuptitiously profound,
until my words are driven deep in the ground.
Poetry is perhaps my art of invention,
no limits, no rules to eclipse our conventions,
and in creative redress I shall pour out my heart,
and give my soul's whisper a platform to start.
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