TORMENTING MYSELFSometimes I wake up,
In the middle of the night.
Find I cannot sleep,
So I have to write.
I'm surrounded by likewise poet's,
Although while I honed my craft
on poetbay, I didn't really know it.
Surprised by all that read my scribbles,
That consider me a worthwhile poet.
I've never considered myself,
A writer like themselves.
To have any talent,
Being dyslexic in itself.
Just a no talent old man,
That feels his age.
No rage not even a speck,
Then again what do you expect.
I can still hear them say with no respect.
After all he is the baby of the family;
So I no longer care what the heck.
Then one day I wrote a poem,
The poet, About an anonamouse.
That flits from house to house,
Never believing it was good enough.
Being told how good it was,
I thought this was a mistake.
Sixty poems later,
Realised I had what it takes.
Then finally I arrived on poetbay,
Found that was the beginning
Not an end. Then suddenly I realized,
I had found some like minded friends.
Isabelle and F.M including many others,
Like Afrodite stathi as dawn break's.
At the start of another hour glass,
Waiting yet again for another day
I don't have time to praise you all.
Then again I believe you know
Who you are, thanks to all once again.
It's nice to know along the way
I've made a plethora of friends.
I'd prefer to live my life in mediocracy,
Then to live a life in obscurity.
If all atrocities causes bad poetry,
I think in the end I'd rather be me.
Poetry by Alan J Ripley
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Written on 2022-09-22 at 00:43
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