I cannot write a serious poem without some part of me wanting to make it funny.
How like a prison is my cubicle
Within four walls, I know I am entrapped.
How like a song unsung, unmusical,
My state of mind so far has not been mapped.
Inside my heart, I used to have a room
Where space and grace and nature all did dwell.
But then a false man led me to my doom
The details I will never ever tell.
My walls fell down like Jericho of old.
My love became my enemy, my hate.
With rubble my heart filled, alas, not gold.
My enemy was once my warmest mate
What seems to be the truth is but a lie
Take me to the woods and let me die
Take me to the pub to eat pork pie
Give me cardboard wings for I can fly
How my heart speaks 