
Heavy the heart of a poet
Who must write as life unfolds
Neither turmoil or meager mirth
Sway or prompt their given goals
My secret self is destitute
Bereft of breezy notions
Bombarded from all sides I am
With brew of ill-aimed potions
A thin veneer of beneficence
Shrouds my humble home
I do not doubt it’s vulnerable
To risks known and unknown
I write in day and into night
I whisper as I speak
I dip in wells that oft run dry
My eyes are spent and weak
Compelled am I to document
In ho-hum sing-song rhyme
A living breathing testament
That sheds light on this time
And I will make you laugh and cry
Through intervals of strife
In hope these words of mine console
And make sense of this life
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