I’m a nice guy, but a bit of a prick
with change in his pockets and habits to kick.
I walk to the fridge and pop one more top,
Unleashing a passion no one can stop.
I can sit here for hours and type sweet
nothings that amount to something concrete
Or pen prose in a matter of minutes
And leave you wanting at the fast finish.
The wind howls and screeches as it teaches
Me what to write next – saying, “he reaches
for the truth within him to show others
the soul underneath his set of covers.”
Press publish and pray for some piety
in the form of comments to little me.
The swagger disappears and enters fears:
Putting it out there – all the tears and years –
is a process that feels quite misguided
although on occasion I have tried it
with some success and glorious grandeur.
Hopefully this will be the same right now,
It would be nice to get love and some “wow!”