I can taste something
Don’t know what it is
It ain’t my dinner, done that a thousand and one times over
Not the hangover, I feel perfectly sober
It must be the rhyme in me
‘Cos it’s all I want, the ability to get the font spot on
Hand it over to a publisher who goes about publishing it
Doesn’t deem it rubbish
When I wake up in the morning I’m an easily excitable pup
With my pen in hand, all is grand
Try as I might to write the perfect poem
Published or not, I will always remain tied to this laptop
Home alone
A solitude existence for sure, but oh so pure
Pure to the last, so why not in fact give this thing a blast
I do want the acknowledgement that comes with it
Here I sit
Dreaming about an interview on ‘The Late Late Show’
On I will go, Tubridy blown away with what this particular poet might have to say
Is it odd that all of these stories come to mind
Not for me, it’s actually the opposite, I find it interesting
I can start up my laptop, wait and see
Where the next word in my dictionary takes me
An adventure like no other
And if I get bored, tongue-tied
No need to get shy, get back on that horse, make some new adventures
See where the new day takes me
To have a book on the shelf overhead my bed would be amazing
Something I could come too whenever I want to build myself up
Ignore those who say that all I ever was is a makeshift writer, cheeky pup when it comes to words
Surely that’s absurd, I’ve done my time, some days are good, some an absolute crime
But I seem to want to come back for more, re-enter through that prison cell door
An obsession perhaps, a lapse in memory when it comes to recalling the harsher times
My creative head falsely informing me that it was always sublime
Maybe that’s part of the process, an unquenchable appetite to impress everyone and anyone
But I’m not pretentious
I’d never force them to read, stand over you with a literary gun
It’s there for them to read if they wish to do so
I’m an ordinary enough joe
With something of an ability to make the words flow
Right on onto you