Upon this cozy couch I sit.
It’s here the verses, I have writ
Flow forth from my creative grunting,
Some in humor, some affronting.
From whence the writings, I’m loath to say,
They’re just a lark, akin to play.
A pastime needing not a prod,
With some attempts being rather odd.
The spark for some, my risible striving,
Arrive out of the blue, from life, observing.
More sensitive themes come right from the heart,
When those true notions I seek to impart.
Who would fancy my meager efforts?
I’ll expect no applause from the experts!
Nor assume enchantment as they read,
Just reassurance, rather than impede.
So we’ll simply press on, my muse and me,
Occasionally launching out on a poetry spree.
Searching my brain for a pretense to write,
Trusting the results are not a literary blight.