One more time I put my pen to work
To be the painting, made with words
Of agony or ecstasy and
Question what’s hidden underneath

I’m tired of the same old rhyme
That scrapes the sadness time after time.
To buck-up, to see things another way,
That you can make it through another day.

My beacon dims, I’m running out of steam
Clichés are ok, but give nothing of me
Needing escape, wishing, praying, setting goals
To have good health - that would be my pot of gold

So I say, use this poem – for a laugh
Or to line a PD donation hat
To start a campfire to keep warm
Or use it to be, where dreams in you are born.