to pass away the time,
to purge the demons in my head,
nor make up silly rhymes.
I don’t write poetry John
to make a million bucks
to see my name in big bright lights,
no John, no such luck.
I don’t write poetry John
because the words flow through my blood
to spill bright red upon this page
a frenzied, raging flood.
I don’t write poetry John
to court a fair Irish lady,
to romance her on a warm spring eve
the bonny lass, young Beth O’Grady.
No John, sometimes I write poetry
cause I want to need to have to,
and when I must and can’t resist,
I reach for pad and pen!
For in the words, John, don’t you see
I find some long lost friends.
by R. A. Richardson
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