Whatsappoem2

the trouble with poetry is
thunderous clouds of uncertainty
in the room as well as the sky
souls laid bare visible to the naked eye

Inside

inside
i'm no scribe
can't hide monotonous diatribe
no windowed world view
just a faded watercolour of shifting hues
watching grey's melt into blues

Poetry doesn't have to rhyme
At least not all the time
It's not a crim--inal offence.