I guess i never really had a goal
my only thought was the day
right now is all that really mattered
when i would go out to play.

then i learned to play the skins
Buddy Rich is who i’d followed
wanting to be the best in the world
in big band jazz i wallowed.

then i seemed to enjoy my art
imbedded in my marrow
being a potter was then my goal
my teachers i would shadow.

but that too, didn’t quite work out
my ambitions were never narrow
i had to learn to discover myself
but all inside was hollow.

i never would make any plans
beyond the next tomorrow
this would go on for many years
until i confronted sorrow.

the love inside i thought i had
was a love that she just borrowed
that’s from where my writing came
the birth of a poet went forward.

so through the years of many jobs
i continued to have this obsession
scraps of paper, scribbled down notes
being a poet was now my objective.

using those jotted down thoughts
compositions that were whole
so here i am wanting to write a book
trying to accomplish this goal.

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i think this poem is pretty straight forward