I read to them
and they know naught
of every, tiny, angry thought
Which consumes me day to night
And pushes me, myself to fight!

I will not!

I swear if it were not for rhyme
or booze or smokes or other's time
as well my fear of their reprise
And how I look within their eyes

I fear not!

People,though advanced they feel
have no idea of what is real
until they feel it for themselves
until they lose their place on shelves.

I shift not!

I recall whence greatness placed
on  three things men when born and raised
would need in life aside from knaves
a wife, an heir, a vic'try laid

The simpler times when wars were fought
hand to hand and steel to slaught-
er how far have we really come
to treat our loved ones just as dumb?

Pentameter (from Greek: πεντάμετρος - 'measuring five (feet)') is a poetic meter. А poem is said to be written in (a particular) pentameter when the lines of the poem have the length of five feet, one foot being a combination of a particular number (1 or 2) of unstressed, or weak, syllables and a stressed, or strong syllable. Depending on the pattern of feet, pentameter can be, for example, iambic (one of two possible two-syllable meters) or dactylic (one of three possible three-syllable meters) (see links below).

This class of meters includes:

• the iambic pentameter of the modern period
• the dactylic pentameter of antiquity

How often in pentameter
must I milk his feelings rare
for he is wonton
b'ond repair
My love whom sits just over there.

A mere five feet if I can measure
from his love and from his treasure
here I sit, cannot compare
to the glass just over there

the condensation falls as tears
but I dare  not express my fears
lest i'm compar'd to his other
whom bore his daughter; hair so fair

He is his, and I would never
dare to grip his wings to tether
not even a wanton feather
of the wings I hold so dear

I can see his wings still shifting
and his beak so meekly chipping
and his passions family gripping
pecking at the amber near

With wings encased
his mind is slipping
rocks of doldrum's pools'; he's gripping
an artists heart, an artists ear
he's wed to that he holds so dear.

I will always share his heart
Me his mistress,
Life, his art.
Never will there ever be
only him and only me.

Rough winds doth eventually shake everything.

I read to him, my afore poem
he cared little for my tome
I fear that he may see in me
my unbridled insanity

I told that he should have no qualms
as long as he was in my arms
for at least in my arms' embrace
he tastes not of insanity

I feed him honey,feed him bread
keep them fed, as mamma said
and they will see humanity
not thinly-cloaked insanity

I will dress so prettily
lace to play the vanity
to slieght of hand humanity
to mask the raw insanity

I'll wait 'til onset of pity
to re-live from antiquity
my passion for the laity
that's my inane insanity.

Under your tongue

You cough and wheeze, the hours go by
I pour your drinks, I ask you why
I cannot help and you reply,
"I do not want your medicine."

You made me go to town with you
to do the things you cannot do
like go into the bottle store
and acquire your own medicine.

I step outside to have a smoke
and mention things;you know I joke
but feel so bad about yourself
you drown you in your own medicine.

We spoke about how men are kings
until an illness forces them
to need the tit of catering
you still deny your medicine

You moan about the things we say
about your manliness astray
when you are ill and will not take
your kindly-offered medicine

Do not assume that we know naught
'bout how relation-lines are taught
it's more than kind words and you ought
to take your fucking medicine.

A tea I brew for you my dear
Of almond and ole'ander
Sweet dreams and hush your wheezing tone
And drink of my sweet medicine.