It's half past midnight <br />and the wind's getting gusty. <br />I'm rusty, <br />not lusty. <br />The skin on my poetry <br />is becoming dusty. <br />It needs moisture, life, inspiration <br />but sitting alone <br />causes mental constipation. <br />Give me some passion. <br />It's not out of fashion <br />but I'm not getting my fair ration <br />of oomph... <br />So I'll crawl into bed <br />and hope that my head <br />becomes a collection box. <br />That it rocks <br />with the weight of some words <br />strung together in an orderly manner <br />and not dropp a clanger <br />by filling it full of puerility. <br />What futility!<br /><br />Francesca Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-s-half-past-midnight/
