In the rarefied air of consciousness
It seems sometimes like we are catching our breath,
Which is hard to do in the life of the so called real
Where just to get on in life we have to appeal,
And oftentimes my writing does not fit many
But it’s my thoughts and words that are authentic,
Not just musings reflecting the vox pop
And it’s highly unlikely I could ever stop,
As I am driven by something beyond my control
In some way it’s like a cleansing of the soul,
And if it helps or resonates with just one other
Then that brings us closer as sisters and brothers,
Sharing the same journey of passion and pain
Or maybe of the euphoria of the insane,
To not write to me would be like a life so inane
But to make it clear it’s not to make my name,
I am just a working class geezer who knows no shame
About my literary incompetence but I continue any way.
fauxcroft 
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