Was not my actual number seventy five.
But finished in that place to thrive. Started down amongst the twenties.
Edited, and stalled, more times than plenty's.
Full admittance, for many may consider it not, from a poet.
Yet still, without shame, I dare to show it.
It carries on, as a strange told play.
It tells of time, I see my way.
I leave it to you, as a riddle of sorts.
To figure the one, which gives strange reports.
Of times we live in, and times to be.
In this free land, I jester, democracy.
Without the gift I see in pen.
Without the want of now and then. To share a few erythematic vocals.
With all of you I see as locals.
As this be my number seventy six. Again I needed a small quick fix.
I smile as the Words To Written fall.
For once again, I share with all.