Poem By Rita Jette

it drips and drips,
to the tune of dismay,
so melancholy is the sound,
that pitter patters on the nerves,
till depression does rouse within,
and bring forth the black within.
it pours and pours,
to the tune of violence,
so turbulent is the sound,
that slap slaps on the nerves,
till aggravation does rouse within,
and bring forth the beast within.

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Other poems of RITA JETTE


Fruit ripe from the harvest, did not come this year.
The farmer did his best, but only reaped a tear.
His fields were all flooded, the rain wouldn’t stop.
The land like a riverbed, it could yield no crop.

The Frailty Of Life

As the grass does wither, and soon fades away,
So the frail life here, in its limited day.
As the wind blows hither, and then goes its way,
So man in his sphere, visits a limited day.