Not Much A Done

Not Much A Done

 

Not much a done

And by what right

Do I have

When such is so

To sit me anywhere

And write my words

In hopes to be

A writer man

 

I haven't lived

And barely traveled

So I should

Stop this thing

That drives me on

Lest I live

 

Only

What would you call

The years since birth

Though quiet so

And small indeed

That is my life

 

I've drunk as what

I've drunk of life

Not boldly as

Others have

But still indeed

I've drunk enough

To write my words

 

So though as not

The boldest life

No children born

Or travels

In the much

And only stints

Of full steadiness

Since left the nest

I will write

And keep damn keep

Upon this path

In my way

For that is me

 

Not much a done

I'll admit as much

Save to shape myself

Into the kind

The kind of man

Who can write

And some goodly so

Though quietly lived

 

Charles Petrie

 

Well...damn, I like this poem! I'm not going to sit here and not say it. Don't think me arrogant, because I'm not. But also don't expect me to sit here and not say what I feel.

Hell, this is more than just a feeling eh. I know this is good.

And that is enough.

Tomorrow.