Fumbling fingers, grasping a pen and paper

With words swimming around in my head

A swirl of thoughts and wonder

Topped with expectations above my bend

 

I wholly accept my skills and talents

Or more exactly— the lack of it

I won’t be as great as Dickens

Not even close, not even a bit

 

I’m not aiming for a perfect score

I’m not aiming for As

It’s what I do while sitting on our porch

For whatever reason, everyday

 

So I’m sure you want to know

What keeps my fingers typing?

What keeps my passion growing?

What keeps my stories going?

 

It’s a simple matter of staying sane

Because what poetry gives me

Is an outlet for my joy or my pain

Or basically anything I can think of or see

 

Allan Wolf once stated

“The points are not the point;

The point is poetry”, he said.

I’ll rather have you, yourself, see what he meant

 

Although, I will give you a little insight

To prove his statement true

You know when writing poems

It is as if writing a part of my soul too

 

So I’ll tell you this, I’ll stop writing poems

When my body is under a soil of loam

When my hands are immobile and cold

And my brain’s gone rotten and old