I am sitting here, the dead playing in my ear,
Trying to close the gaps of the past,
And to move onto my horizon.
I guess I never forgot the songs of long ago,
Cause they still ring true to my ears.
I strive for perfection in every failure I secure,
To forget the words I have read and forge new ones for you,
seems some Authors heroic quest,
For this simple writer is neurotic like all the rest.
I can’t be some poser,
or even a simple editor man,
What I write, say, and feel upon you,
Is fresh ink from my soul,
Poured on some parchment,
And then bleed just for you.
I don’t hope to cause some scene,
Or desire my fifteen minutes of your fame,
I just want my words to keep flowing from the well I keep digging,
The source is unkind,
Just a place I like to call my Poet Island.
Maybe it is only known for what it is,
A lonely writers only refuge.
Brought to you by Eddie Cabbage