A Writer's Life

A Writer’s Life

I wonder what more people want of me,

Those who sit and do nothing stating that they’re free.

Is it not enough this life that I have given,

To toil and sacrifice some call it being driven.

And for what I ask myself as shadows fall,

Casting sorrows and thorns enslaving all.

What does it matter this life that’s now spent,

That filled beggar’s cups, given tops not worth a cent.

Is it my destiny to look away from those in time,

The streetwalkers, speaking lies often too kind.

For to surrender to yarns of meaningless dribble,

Is to value lines giving them purpose, but only a little.

So let them go their way I’ve often said,

As stories swirl in my mind upon my bed.

They entertain me with their whimsical lines

Promising each one will become more than divine.

But, at last, I must free myself or so I’ve been told,

For specters at night from youth till growing old.

But I must keep the door open and I will,

Inviting many to visit, becoming my writing, that’s the thrill.