There is a little lad inside my head.
He sits in his arm-chair critiquing with lead.
Posting pages of notes upon my walls,
Of moments where I wish I saw:
The way she looks and stares with grace,
A broken down car and the man who waved,
The bluejay who perched upon the sill,
And moments that I could never fill- again.
With a marvelous triumph I give him praise,
For the things I have learned, improving future days.
If it were not for the little lad inside my head.
I would be cold and empty and without a worthy head.