Gibberish: For Whatever It Is Worth

HERE I am writting another poem,
Cause I am a poet, or at least I think I am.
Or what the hell, even if I am not?
I can write what I please,
And call it a special plot.
Outgrowth of my unnatural Imagination or Sycophancy,
For whatever it is worth.

HERE I am singing a song,
Of my eternal experiences of some five years and a score ,
Playing on the harp.What's wrong and right?
To love and be wise, exceeds man's might.
Let's inflate the eternal love affair of our lives,
With The solitude of destinies.
Or The platitude.
And throw away our plight.
May be I am wrong...may be,right!
For whatever it is worth.

HERE I am making art out of naught.
And calling it my style.
Poets maketh nay Metre, Metre maketh them.
Bolstering the fog of pretense,
Clouding the world with deceit.
Perhaps not by design,
By accident,
But let's stop it here and die.
For whatever it is worth.

She Is Pregnant

The fear of impregnation,
That anticipation of hue and cry.
For the feeblness of her existence,
Had no precedence of that accord.

The slowly rising infatuation,
Devil's outcry.
The unpreparedness of her demeanure,
And lack of hope to live it through.

Left me so wanting to seed her with ecstasy,
But I dare not use the ploy,
It is unnecessary to reiterate it,
As she is pregnant,
Pregnant with joy.