I Am

Poem By Werner Schmidt

possibly a poet.
How all these stories start.
Some turn into songs
and many bring joy to this heart.

Aww, that's so sweet
Mister Wanna B.

Some plot their way to a novel
a children's book with party trees
a play in three acts.

Some become first draft
cinders in an artistic inferno.

Artistic, you say?

Cinders, compost
feed future literary flowers -
growing, while I listen
to dove and cricket concerto's.

These words die
prettily as the sun
every day at dusk.
Resting, waiting
to again be born...

Hey, Wanna B
You didn't rhyme this time!


Wha... where was I?
… to again be born
to dance with my feathered fears
as I behold the creamy blue smile
of my daily dose of dawn.

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I wish I could choose