Here's a few pieces of Wrinklys Prose:
Because Of Age! by WrinklyNinja - D. Powell.
If I could think of something fresh, to put upon this page,
I would, I promise, every day..., but can’t because of age.
The ideas do not flow so well, within my mental haze,
‘Tis nothing more than half ideas, which fade into that maze.
When something good, up-stands itself, I think I’ll use that here,
And then I think it out again, and something looks too queer.
A thing, or thought, that fits the bill, no longer fits the space,
And then it’s all so muddled, and I cannot find its’ place.
Looking clear within its‘ bounds, now not , oh what a bind,
A word that fitted here before, just will not go, is what I find.
Oh pish, and bosh, my pesky brain, has lost its’ wherewithal again,
I tried a sentence, got screwed up, and lost it in another plane.
The mists of time bedraggle me, can it really get much worse,
For every single word, or line, I write into this verse?
If I could think of something fresh, to put upon this page,
I would, I promise..., every day..., but I can’t... because of age!
Dust mites.
Dust mites are such grotesque creatures,
Eight stubby legs and ugly features.
Living on my sloughed off skin,
To breed more of their ugly kin.
Feeding on dead skin’s a must,
As it makes up most of household dust.
No classy home, like a weeping willow,
Oh no, they prefer to use my pillow.
The dust in my home’s been there weeks,
It’s only purpose? To feed these geeks.
No pleasant feelings can I foster,
Their number so great, there’s a feeding roster.
So tiny and small, they are well hid,
They’re natures ugliest arach-nid
Quitting The Weed. by WrinklyNinja ;; D. Powell.
One day, so many years ago,
My friend was smoking, I had a go.
But the thing I had not realised yet,
This day’s one I would long regret.
Thousands of pounds, I could have saved,
If not my right, to this I’d waived.
To think back on it, my friend had joked,
How badly I coughed, when first I smoked.
The years have passed, I continued the deed,
But at what cost, was this smoking the weed?
My pocket, my lungs, my health all round,
Had been claimed in pride, by this choking sound.
But now its’ time has run its’ course,
I’m chucking it out, without remorse.
It took me for a fool too long,
And now I’m writing its’ final song!
Coughing, choking sounds, now fading,
I’m back to health, and fitness, wading.
No more upon my life, will it feed,
For I’m actually quitting that awful weed!
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