I'm a poet. I'm a dreamer. I see visions. I have a soft spot for a clever turn of phrase. I'm an artist. I'm a rebel. But what am I good for, As I drift through my lonely days. I scribble into notebooks I fill these sketchpads full. With useless diversions No one will ever see. My children are hungry, This house is not mine, No peace in my little world Except in my lonely corner where I can be me I'm a poet. I'm a dreamer. I see visions. I have a soft spot for an image from far away. I'm a writer I'm an inventor. Cannot decipher what am I good for As I ramble through each quickly dwindling day? Nobody claims to know me They say I can't be read But I'm sharing all my secret thoughts Every meaning I have said From my side I do make the effort To draw you through my mind Yet the work I do goes nowhere My words you'll never find I'm a poet. I'm a dreamer. I get visions. I have a soft spot for an overcrowded page. I'm an author. I'm a draw-er Am I selfish and deluded, As my lonely path leaves my attempts at friends behind? And so I fill the final page Of this tattered journal, my sole companion Reaching the threshold of my old age No summary opus do I leave behind I wander the streets, so alone, but not afraid. As I seek for some corner to lie me down, To sleep at last as the world rushes by I am a poet I am a dreamer Fare me well Fare me well As the wind carries off my pages Into the starry watching waiting night,
