i had dreamed of wanting to get away from everything and everyone. just to become myself. to find myself. to create. no distractions. no interruptions. a romantic life.
never saw myself as an office bee. felt more of a free-spirited soul. yet that was not the journey charted. went inside and most everything died. a lack of sunlight i guess. yet not quite all. a pilot flame burned on.
strange how life wonders about. never in a straight line. never how we planned or expected. so here i am nearing the end of my office career. looking for something to help fill that void.
in my spare time began writing poetry. plans call for that to continue after leaving the hive. i am as surprised as anyone at this turn of events.
being the first to say i can not spell. never liked english classes. never have enjoyed reading. speaking? pronunciation always trips me up. never was good at writing. long it still takes to write a single line. going digital must have saved a million trees from landfills.
writing poetry brings enjoyment. i do publish to websites for anyone to read. if they like my works great. if not they move on.
my mind is not as sharp as it was. truth be told. never was it sharp to start with. with writing i hope it helps.
a few scores later no longer wanting to live a hermit’s life. not on the side of a mountain. nor upon a wind and rain swept island.
realizing interaction is needed to draw inspiration from. being surrounded by and observing life is always better than imagining.
making a small home my retreat. where i can slip away to but not isolate. in a scottish village. in the english countryside among the lake district. on a florida key or a barrier island. within a tall hobbit home.
someplace where i can stretch my legs. open the windows and wonder with bare feet.
hemingway had it right. so here i sit happily writing.
a lost soul that dreams oh to live a poet’s prose life pen and pad in hand