"Inamorata mid Paramour" by Aron Woolnough

A long time caging my rage
and I'd be hating just fine,
but yee, but yee, be down
because I played the fool
and I, curse I, be damned,
you broke the ice with a kiss;
how did thou end up like this?

Falling upon a bed asleep
while she left me alone to weep
and dream aside his ash filled pipe
aghast haunting my aerial drift,
and shift as they purge a bedchamber
to fire putrid pain onto my gut o' amber,
but it's all in my head, it's all in my slumber.

A giggle, a gasp and she fingers his chest,
he tears through her dress onto caress
her captivating beauty, not letting me go,
burning forth from me uncontrolled,
jealousy, churning darkness by the sea
swimming amid a sick alibi
choking I can not preach goodbye.

'The Wordsmith' by Aron Woolnough

Don't believe I wrote this?
Want me to drop in some names or go hiss-tiss,
tuff-puff, oogle-boogle,
don't take my word for it,
hit feeling lucky on google.

I'm a crafter of the croak, a revolution of the word,
these rhymes will feed my ego even if they're absurd.
Does it make your brain boggle or your mind mangle,
that you can't believe, that I'm not playing an angle?

I don't want to smother you in words so I'll give you a chord
it starts with dang dong and it's played on keyboard;
if you hit A minor, then the dang-dong -
wait, don't twist my words into abusing kid King Kong -
hit a C major and you're back in the song.

I'd be strong at singing hymns if they weren't all wrong,
this is right now and no one's playing around,
my words'll make my money just by being a sound,
I don't care for cash, but its hard to say no
when you've got this much talent, they'll keep on feeding you dough!

I'm not quite there yet, so I'll take this slow,
I'll call this bit the bridge and then pitch'll get low,
if you haven't done it yet, you should drop the tempo,
start to sound real gloomy for this part of the show,
build suspense cos everyone is waiting to blow,
the star that I am is starting to glow.

I was gonna try to hide it, but you already know
that I could write a kick-ass poem,
about my parents and show it to 'em.
Show that I'm the poet, that wrote it and sow my seed;
be an artist I insist, not led by greed -
kill some stanzas in pyjamas as I hit the hay.

I'm the wordsmith of the future, so you'll do what I say,
I'm expecting to be nominated for penguin awards any day,
no one's sure if it's fair on the runners-up anyway,
as I'm the wordsmith of the future, hammering not stammering,
no mutter, stutter or utterance unintended.
I'm a linguist, an artist and kick-ass too,
as I'm preaching to my canvas in my kick-ass room.