Selfish Possibly


Who do I write for you ask?


Well, life doesn’t stop when you’re tired

Or when you’re sick

Or mired

In all of the work, the relationships, the demands

It snowballs and grows

Life is a bitch and we are but servants meant to accept the commands

Never to say no

Never to say can’t or won’t

Always helpful, always needing to stow

Away all of the personal reasons, the ideals, the legitimate excuses

We go home at the end of the day

Having bottled up our profound thoughts and having absorbed the abuses

Of co-worker, family, and friend

When even our news tells us how to think and how to feel

It’s hard to imagine a time where we can mend

Our broken spirits and those of others

When we can use our talents and our own thoughts

To spark creativity, find solutions, become brothers

And sisters working for peace and a new day.


When I try too hard to remember it all

The thoughts I have, the dreams, the hopes

So overwhelmed by life that I close my ears to a greater call

I record those words

Poetry, bullet points and prose

In doing so I separate myself from the herds who are content to spend their days

Being spoon-fed someone else’s opinions

Willing to accept the latest craze.


So, who do I write for?

I write for me.



But I am willing to share if you are willing to listen

And if you are willing to share

I am more than willing to listen


I write for me

For now at least.



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