Often people ask me
What it is I do
Poet of the times
Purveyor of the truth

Peeling back the onion skin
Carving at the rhyme
Pouring drinks of imagery
Squeezing out the line

Taking out the sickle
Knocking down the weeds
Till I uncover the beauty of
Hidden treasures underneath

Often people ask me
What it is I see
In the ink of illusion
Known as poetry

I say the line of work I'm in
Suits this poet fine
Where so often I catch myself
Working overtime