got to rhyme
what’s in my mind
this ain’t no Quill Valley
no huge words to digest
ain’t got the ability to represent
what a poet is tallying.
Ain’t nobody going to tell
ain’t should go to hell
been there, done that
ain’t nothing but flames dancing
to the beat of a weird drum
that ain’t visible to the naked eye.
Ain’t got to believe or deceive
you take what you need
leave the rest in the trash
it will be gone in the daylight
ain’t dropping no seed
in the middle of my flight.
Ain’t no Quill Valley here
a deranged, overrated, underachiever, fragment
that sometimes ain’t too bright
but spurts out light
often by mistake, but ain’t that what poets do
ain’t nothing a poet can’t do.