My Space

This is my book
My private space
Where I can climb mountains
And face my disgrace
This is my haven
My Confessor, my Friend
Where things I have written
I can read now and then
Yet not understand
What or why, yet I did
But I wrote it,
I wrote it,
I bloody well did!
I'm not Kipling or Keats
nor Thomas or Blake
Theirs is a Magic
this mortal can't make
I'm a speck, just a morsel
Who squeaks now and then
Just a few of my thoughts
Will spill from a pen

written in the 80's