Am I a wrighter
a righter
Can I write?
Older I get
Words slip away
Long ago
I tossed the lexicon
and went on my way
But words no longer come easy
What was that city?
The one we were in last summer
Time and age
are making me work
I become a little dummer
Someday I won't remember at all
as written words I do shirk
As they place me in that stall
The box they put you in
In the monastary
er mortuary
Put me in a coffee can
toss me off a ferry
As a writer I have self doubt
But then that is what critique is about
Have I written the world's best novel?
for no one seems to be reading