I know I’ve found my fated cause
a reason to exist
that feels so good, despite the flaws
I’m certain won’t desist;
regardless how I tend to gripe
I’ll never alter common type.
A rook amongst the nightingales
I flatly sing my song
but all my garbled squawking fails
to satisfy the throng
and still my caws routinely spill
across the web from blackest quill.
As seasons spin their primal dance
of bounty and rebirth
there will be those that look askance
at how much they are worth,
a question with but one reply—
how much did you truly try?
Are You Reading Me?
2 comments:
Personally, I think I've read every word you've squawked and...probably don't want to hear the ones you didn't say out loud!
my caws are my cause
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