Writing my memoirs,
Ignoring my neighbors,
Engaging in frivolous fancy.
I’m saving my words,
To poor to afford
A lesson in intimate dancing.

Under 60 watt lights
Facts seem to collide,
And I struggle for more illumination.
Though notions evolve
Like ships in a fog
To set sail upon my ‘magination.

With laptop and chair
And cupboards quite bare,
My efforts no better for penning.
It bothered me so,
There was no place to go
Than back to the very beginning.

Describing each scene,
I am penning my dreams,
For a world that has no way to find me.
Though I know I was there
It doesn’t seem fair,
I still had to make up most of the stories.

As the hours slip away
And I stare at this page,
I ponder this lonely endeavor.
Like ripples on ponds,
My words may live on,
But a “real life”
Would have been even better!

Michael S. True
9-13-09 last edit 8-24-13