It's funny how your poetry
has the power to make me blush
it's like our little secret
and it gives me quite a rush

You think anyone has figured out
that poem is 'bout me?
I'd like for everyone to know
just how lucky life can be

I wonder if this poem
(I'm curious I'll confess)
will start a little treasure hunt
for my hidden poetess.

Overpaid ego's
Unlike those in sixty six
Those boys had some heart

Sundays are for poetry
it's just the way it is
The fact that I should mow the lawn
doesn't get me in a tiz

And sure I could shingle the shed
but it ain't fell down yet
and besides so what if it rains
things'll just get a little wet.

And I could be stripping paint
hanging wallpaper and doors
but quite frankly I dont want to
There's a reason they're called chores

No I'd much rather be sat here
with my laptop on my knee
sharing the thoughts within my head
for everyone to see.

Because Sundays are for poetry
that's just the way it is
perhaps I should go write that down
into a poem such as this

You know sometimes you know,
and others you just think,
and then there's times you've no idea,
and those times truly stink.

But what if what you knew was wrong?
Then you wouldn't know what to think.
Why that would drive you crazy man,
leave you teetering on the brink!

I think I've come up with a plan,
to rid me of this fear.
It's to live in blissful ignorance,
with no freakin idea.

The first cut is not the deepest,
it is merely the first.
Without doubt in my experience,
the last cut was the worst.

How do you know
which path is best to take
if you don't want to end up walking
just for walkings sake

It used to be you stumbled on
without a path even in sight
lack of purpose and direction
kept you awake at night

Now suddenly, not one but three
routes forward you can see
one paved and clearly visible
on this one should you be?

Or perhaps one of the other paths
like the one shrouded in mist
the allure of its mystery
is not easy to resist

And then there is the well worn path
thats fallen to neglect
yet still lined with scents so heavenly
and blooms with petals so perfect

Perhaps what makes the choice so hard
is not knowing what awaits
do these paths lead to utopia
or walled in chained up gates.

They say that life is short,
and while this may be true,
is it not also correct to say,
its the longest thing you'll ever do.