Poem

These are poems,

I don't know what to say of them.

They speak for themselves,

But not properly.

They make me sound not so swell,

Get me in trouble regularly.

I remember the days that my hand would be come sore,

From penning my thoughts as if I wielding a sword.

Now I sit here and type,

It don't seem quite right,

But hey that is my way,

Now and forever until I lay,

For the final time,

This is how I write my rhymes.

Take my rhymes for what they are,

They come from depths so far,

Inside my mind,

That I don't have time to try to unwind,

The meanings,

Or the feelings,

Behind what is said,

And be thankful I decided to get out of bed,

And put them down,

Instead of laying there with my usual frown.