by Byron D. Howell

*****

I once complained all I can do is write.
When times get tough I take a look inside.
How lifeless could life be to waste a night
on words to nurture my own damaged pride?
I once complained my life is such a bore
while others drink, get high and roam about?
There is no doubt why my right hand is sore!
Love's compromised and sex is done without.
I once complained, "I'm trapped inside my mind!"
Too deep to think about much else it seems.
The soul on whom I vented called me blind.
No better place, no safer place - in dreams.
My best friends are my pad and ballpoint pen.
I once complained, but never did again.

*****