I am a poet who writes on many topics.
Through misfortune lately, my words have turned myopic.
I live a life of strife for all too many reasons.
One is wealth, the other health, all too many demons.
Every day is pain and fear, for it does not ever change.
No matter what I try, I cannot seem to rearrange.
No peace of mind, that I can find, no money in the dirt.
Day after painful day, all I ever do is hurt.
Oh, I can still write of love and gifts and gratitude.
But it won’t change, inside my brain a bad attitude.
To live in fear throughout the year, a scary proposition.
I still wonder why I’m here, what is the supposition?
I’ve been given such a wondrous talent to most create
Was never effected by this hell until just of late.
Won’t go away, it’s here to stay and make my life unjust.
Have asked for help, with a yelp but none that I do trust.
Either they are in it for the money or have no answers so.
Time goes on, the pain ain’t gone, say it isn’t so.
Had I the money, gee that’s funny, I’ll bet the pain would go.
I wouldn’t write these words tonight, guess I’ll never know.
I’m obsolete, my life complete, now a distant vision.
How I got here, I don’t know, was I part of the decision.
All I know is every day is pain for all twenty four hours.
I’ve lost the way, to make my pay, and have so few dollars.
I think of that bullet, travelling through my brain.
That ends all this insecurity and of course the pain.
And of yet, with all this yech, I’m still on this earth.
Thinking of The Moody Blues singing about "Rebirth."
Poets are put on this earth for God knows many reasons.
To make sense of this universe and all four of its seasons.
I guess the gift that I’ve been given as one of this life’s poets.
Is to try, each day goes by to live life as one should know it.