I am approaching that age
Where it might be okay to write,
To sit and stare of into space and think
About what I want to say.
Leave him alone, they’ll say,
He must be tired.
They’ll say, look. He’s writing.
Isn't that quaint,
He’s found something to do.
When I’m reading back, mumbling to myself,
They’ll smile wistfully
Wondering where I've gone,
Eventually concluding I’m off
In my own little world.
They’ll have got the size wrong.
No comments:
Post a Comment