You’re too old to live

And you’re too young to die

Lengthy the queue

Of folk who say why

You can’t just lie down

There’s too much to do

A new life’s beginning

You must see it through.

 

So that’s it!

 

You start, on the darkest of days,

To put pen to paper,

To silence the pain

In search of catharsis

 

And much of what leaks out may be drivel,

And much of what leaks out could well rhyme.

There’ll be critics, the non-shrinking violets,

Who’ll be happy to highlight your crime.

 

So you don’t know the difference,

Poetry or prose.

Do you care?

Maybe later, maybe, who knows?

You’re writing for you

Hoping on hope,

It opens a door

Whilst you learn how to cope.

 

And you’ll scribble away

And perhaps you’ll recite

And there’ll be some folk you’ll hear

Say “God that was … pretty poor old chap”

 

And if it rhymes? It rhymes

And if it don’t? It don’t

And maybe you’ll rhyme

And maybe you won’t.

 

And there’ll always be someone  

Who’ll look down their nose

At whatever you’ve written,

Poetry or prose.

 

For they are the literati

The crème de la crème

And you’re the beginner

And not one of them.

 

Easy to denegrate

You know you’re no fool

Write as you find

It’ll work as a rule