This brain of mine,
is in a thick fog.
My thoughts, unclear.
Unsure of what to do
as the day approaches
where I won't be able
to care for you.

Down the path, like a runaway car,
the lives now lost, near and far.
You care not; that's easy to see,
as your lies will live an eternity.
As a president you are the worst,
when your lies cause your World to burst.
Citizens both far and near,
want to know when you'll disappear,
in the coming months, it will do
for next November, please vote Blue.

The words are dead,
and they shall remain
dead forever
in life's stupid game.

I cannot say these
words to thee
nor write them
for you to see.

You get more bored
when watching TV,
as you now say,
telling it to me.

The ache in my back,
the words in my head,
have caused me to leave
my warm, toasty bed.

Why is that? Oh, I don't suppose
any one will answer the question,
or throw up your hands. Heaven knows.

Words are peculiar; some need to soften
for when I write them down,
I may use them quite often.
I write until my pen runs dry
and grab another, giving it a try.
It writes so faintly I utter a cry.
"For Pete's sake, leave me alone."
So into the trash it must go.
Two pens in one sitting, kind of absurd
as the last pen is sticking.
I like to write, using a pen,
for if I err, I must write it again.