But against my addiction I feel powerless to fight
A tiny voice within me compels me to write.
Of people and Nature and life around me
And of things that I thought or that I imagined I see
Between fact and reality there is a blurred line
There is so much water in each glass of wine
The wonders of Nature a thing to inspire
Of singing her praises could one ever tire
The songs of the birds and the wind in the trees
And the buzzing of flying insects the flies and the bees.
In life in general so much to write about
Like the homeless old bloke drinking from his litre bottle of stout
Alone on a park bench he sleeps in an old shed
On an old mattress on the floor that serves him as a bed.
Were I born a poet I’d make use of my fame
With my pen the corrupt I would put to shame
For many their great lust for money does lead
Them on to corruption to satiate their greed.
I am a poetaster that and nothing more
And for me there never will be an encore
Yet to know I’ll never be famous to me doesn’t seem unfair
And so much to write of on the big World out there.
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