I’d rather write a bad poem
than leave an empty page:
I prefer my thoughts to flow
than to leave my mind encaged.

This voice has been too long silenced
by games of fame and comparison
but it would be an act of violence
to keep these secrets garrisoned.

I cannot say why I write
but something keeps me scribbling
until I wake up in the night
to find that I’ve been dribbling!

Yet the moment I compare
my rubbish to Beaudelaire
I’m more convinced of its worth
if only for mere mirth.

So even though I can’t say
what impels my pen to play
I wish to share an open joy
that I first knew as a boy.

For now I’m a grown man
and my life has “a plan,”
it’s when such goals disappear,
that my muse’s voice is most clear.

So I try to catch her singing
all the love that she’s bringing
and share it with the world
like the oyster bears its pearl.

Ultimately, there is no point,
no divine “how” or why,”
but as I stumble through life,
the words keep on flowing by.

As the rose sheds each petal,
so this ink may too run dry,
but as I watch the mud settle,
I write to celebrate life!

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