Where I Write

I do not think I’d want the life That brings forth all the images Of pain and suffering and strife That time not yet diminishes. Although I love in my own way I find I don’t express that well: Romantic, flowery things to say That flush the face, race hearts a spell. My trials, mostly self-imposed, Seem distant echoes from the past; Though never would I have supposed That they would fade from memory fast. In round-about and tortured way, I’m oft inspired or even awed At all the thoughts you have to say, Some eloquent, some badly flawed. My little corner of the world Seems somewhat simple, rather trite, But I must pen of what I know, Right ‘round the bend, ‘tis where I write.