life imitates

a day of leisure, day of rest;
must power down to be my “best”.
and yet, awake, while all still sleep;
it seems I must some schedule keep.
don’t mind it, though I like my bed;
I just get up and write instead,

don’t like the puerile scheme I chose,
but find the rhyme in 8 just flows.
while those who like such form applaud,
some yesterday’s will choose to laud
there’s room for both ~ or more I bet
free verse, tight scheme, the needs get met

I see some imitation here;
some days I like my wine, not beer.
were each day evermore the same,
you’d dread the morning, skip the game.
in life, as art, there’s style to spare;
compose accordingly – and share.



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