I write my poems Then post them online For all the world to see And I never noticed that I Am writing the tale of me. I never felt a moment's fear That some would read here Any kind of indictment Or make hurtful judgment, Though some have before. Even those I don’t ignore.
I am weaving piecemeal A harlequin coat of words That, when they are heard, Tell you more than asking More than admitting aloud Under oath to an eager crowd Of prosecutors and accusers And those who support me Waiting in their seats, hoping I won’t quit telling, revealing The tale of a man who rhymes. It is nearly my only crime.
Please accept, it is only humming, Something you may do at work; Me jerking a pen and scribbling. Don’t bother with quibbling Because that is what it is, Doodling, noodling, muttering But doing it on paper, lettering Making tuneless music from me So others can see and happily Decide to keep it or share it. I don’t care. It matters not to me. I give my literary gifts freely.