Mentors

One wonders about wizards,

The gizzards of the gods,

One wanders in the blizzards

And suffers silly sods,

One wishes wizened witches,

Would take their own advice,

One washes one’s own britches,

Tries not to tell tales twice.

Writer

Sometimes, I would sit

with a fresh piece of paper

and a pencil that I would

will the life in to, just

empty myself on to the page

until words became

sentences and, subsequently,

something of meaning,

possibly…

of some worth.

Whether I penned a poem

or scribbled an appendix

for my mythology

(or simply sated my need

to see thoughts collected,

in the way only a writer can),

I would breathe more easily;

knowing I had accomplished

something in my day.

Strange, how only my peers

appreciate such nonsense,

and recognize my reality,

my version of the truth;

pertaining to the nature

of such things.

Similar souls ache to be

amused by the muse

and refuse to be abused.