How I Write

Sitting outside, On a cedar board swing. Cold beer right beside, Looking for the “ugly” in the spring. My mind wanders to and fro, Looking for a spooky story. Up top perched a crow, Looking down at something gory. Something starts to focus in me, As my mind paints a Monet. Light brush strokes I see, Flying across my cerebral page. Then my pen starts a flying, Gliding in a maddened way. So I make the crow start crying, And make him eat the gore away. Then my pen is between my teeth, And I reach for my thesaurus. To change an angry to a seethe, See? I want you to think my vocab ain’t so porous.