I cast about in addled mind
no strikes of ideas flash forth.
"This poem is shit" is being kind
it lacks message even mirth

So wad it into paper ball
and drop it into wasted file
The muse doesn't come at all.
I burp up lines which taste of bile.

Eyes dart around my cripple's cell
in search of any worthy subject
but find I'm in a poet's hell
Another line....one more reject.

When there's no time for the broadsheet
Post a response in a heartbeat
When there's no need to be discreet
Can rely on the trusty tweet

Cats of Australia have made their choice,
except this one name Royce,
family gave him no voice,
in advertising jingles he doesn't exist,
Royce has tendency to resist,
always runs away,
when Andrew Lloyd Webber they play,
( meow ) says Webber stinks all day,
: Cat On Hot Tin Roof " better movie play,
often looking for vitriol to spray.

Walking on the petals
fallen from the fading in the air branches,
thinking it was only leaves from distant autumn,
already forgotten season of the winds,
I have crossed the ocean in my dreams.
Listening to murmur,
droplets on the rooftops, fluttering umbrellas,
thinking it was only distant birds and lonely
shadows resurface on the evening ink
I have lost my caution and I wrote a poem.
Thrown in the wide-world
paper boat is floating in the brown waters,
losing paper soldiers overboard like seeds,