Why I Write, Part x+193: Memes

What I do:

I am an arbiter, altering adulterer of language,

An arrogant, insufferable know-it-all,

A poet.

What the world thinks I do:

I dress in black,

All day and night,

and write

About suicide

and homicide

and cyanide:

When humans collide.

What my friends think I do:

I paint scenes of my head and my friends,

With dedication and numbers without any end,

With nothing but meaning and symbols and pens,

Out of phrases and moments and anything there,

Because I care.

What my parents think I do:

I procrastinate and say I write,

Taking two hours, or half the night

To half-think my way through a couple of lines.

It's just an excuse to get out of life.

What I think I do:

All of my words are a gift from a muse,

Which I set up and tune up and polish and use,

and then send out online, where they're shared with the world,

Or at least my half-dozen best boys and girls.

What I really do:

First I think of something to write.

Then something pulls my attention off to the right,

Maybe a little bit, or all the way,

But in any case, enough to forget what I planned to say,

and then I take five minutes to bang out something new,

Which doesn't look anything like it was supposed to,

But it'll do.