Amy R.


As I ponder over this still blank page

I wonder how many a thousand time

I have said those words, I have roamed this cage,

How often have I tried each and every rhyme?

Modern Sisyphus, rolling my boulder

Closer to the top but never reaching,

I throw handsome words over my shoulder,

Trying to bale out, I end up beaching;

I feel more like Tentalus however,

Condemned to always see but never touch

The immoral fruit to make me clever,

Oh though I may grasp, I will never clutch,

And so it hangs down from that acursed tree

Always almost ripe, ever tempting me,

Reflection of greed in my poetry

For in the end I am my own enemy.


The seven deadly sins are present in each and every verse of mine.

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