a
pack today i wile away
within a constant rhyme
when
i’m not writing poetry
them i’m just doing time
the
money made from books i’ve sold
will never pay the rent
but
there is nothing else i do
wherein i am content
i’m
not a boy who plays with toys
no motorboat or wheels
just
a blog i have called “with words
i wander far afield”
i
like to kiss and reminisce
but mostly i just look
i’d
rather write two hundred poems
and fill another book
a
writer should write what he knows
but i’m not all that bright
so
i “stream of consciousness”
when i sit down to write
the
inner workings of my brain
i then put on display
i
penned my first way back in school
and here i am today
i
call myself euterpe’s child
from late classical times
from
her womb until my tomb
i will wrestle with a rhyme
i
deluge words into a verse
and feel creative joy
and
all the other things i do
well i just don’t enjoy
***
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