A writer’s life passes quickly, there is never quite enough time,
To find two lines that scan, and that end in two words that rhyme.
So as the writers’ meeting gets nearer, hoping no-one knows.
You give up writing poetry, and write some awful prose.

I went to Fisherman’s Village to read at the ‘open mic.’
I read them my best stuff, I thought that’s what they’d like.
I waited for some reaction, but all I saw were lips,
Moving methodically up and down, as they ate their ‘Fish and Chips.’

Some write beautiful poetry, others incredible prose.
I write stories for children, I think somehow that shows.
Some write from experience, about all the things they’ve done.
Others like me just write nonsense, but I guess we all have good fun?

Some writers are famous like Shakespeare, others unknown like me.
Shakespeare wrote the sonnets, I went to the writer’s tea.
So I joined the writers’ center, to find what I did wrong.
The ‘Critique Circle’ told me, I should maybe try a song.

Paul Holmes  04/11/08