On Writing
The writer is an artist;
Paper the canvas;
The pen becomes the brush;
Writing, the brush's creative and controlling force;
Images in the words, sentences, and thoughts;
Once hated like a plate of green beans;
Now the end to a means;
Early efforts were quick, from the hip;
The fatal flaw, penmanship;
Coordination came, so many stories to tell;
Sad to say, I could not spell;
Works constructed like a baker;
Apostrophes, periods, and commas from a punctuation shaker;
For years I studied and did my best;
To pass the master's vocabulary test;
"Overhead incandescent illuminaries," my colleagues did write;
My best, "an electric light";
I was told, keep it short and simple;
Don't make a mountain out of a pimple;
Grammar and syntax to conquer before quitting;
To boldly go, without infinitive splitting;
Writing has become a pleasure and joy;
Pieces assembled like a complicated toy;
Technology has taken its toll;
On my writing's tortured soul;
How much easier it would have been, you see;
Had there been available just a small P.C.