I'm a poet, don't you know?
And I write the words that show
what I think and feel and hate and love and say.

I can't help it, I must write
all the morning, noon and night!
It's a frightful thought--addiction, work not play!

Lord, please help me take a break,
I've been here since 'Eighty-eight
and I haven't had a bite to eat since nine.

Loved ones check out institutions
while I ponder absolutions
as I pull my hair in search of perfect line

breaks.

O, a poet I must be!
There's no other life for me!
No, I don't think I could ever give it up

When I die, quill in my hand,
lay me down, strike up the band,
then let mourners wake on ink and tasty scup!

July 30, 2000

Donna Smith

Click here to hear this poem read by Rachel Lindley. (Requires Real Player)

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