Poem: Am I, A Writer?

When the green grass which grows,
is first covered by snows,
and those who whine,
retire in for a time,
I, the writer, come out.

When chills blow through the air,
people talk about life being fair,
but I write of other worlds,
and find myself in whirls,
I, the writer, don’t doubt.

We don’t often talk about what’s real,
talk equally seldom about what we feel,
I prefer to be candid, and just say
what’s on my mind, what I’ve spawned in the hay,
I, the writer, have clout.

I don’t really know what’s going on,
I don’t understand this world we’ve spawned,
I hardly understand myself most of the time,
but I do understand, a brew and a rhyme,
I, the writer, will find out.