Poet

Often people ask me What it is I do Poet of the times Purveyor of the truth Peeling back the onion skin Carving at the rhyme Pouring drinks of imagery Squeezing out the line Taking out the sickle Knocking down the weeds Till I uncover the beauty of Hidden treasures underneath Often people ask me What it is I see In the ink of illusion Known as poetry I say the line of work I'm in Suits this poet fine Where so often I catch myself Working overtime