A cold beer on my desk, fingers on the keyboard
Spewing frothy thoughts, wanting to do more
A freelance writer and wannabe poet
I say what I mean, through my actions I show it


Analytical mind always with a plot
A story to tell more often than not
The words combined usually reveal a message
A teacher? Not I, just offering some tutelage


A stain on the shirt, but not on my pride
Live life to the fullest, for one day I’ll die
I choose to use words for those to remember
Me as the man, and not some pretender


A challenge it seems, so daunting a task
Many before I have written the past
A quote, a phrase, an essay, a book
Whatever it takes to expose a crook


Desire it may, motivate this mind
The more I seek, the more I find
Our heroes of past revised by an edit
“White people are evil. My teacher even said it!”


Think of a time not so long ago
Grandma’s apple pie, baseball, and good ole rock and roll
Fast forward to present and near distant future
What ever happened to American culture?


Just as the currents of a swift running river
Appear so unassuming to a well-seasoned swimmer
Swept downstream to never be seen again
Like a leaf blown away by a strong winter’s wind


I sit here tomorrow thinking of yesteryear
Pause for a second to drink of my beer
What have we become and what shall we be
I’m just a poet, you tell me.