Reasonable doubt

Presumptuous enough to think I’m
the stuff that poets are made from
and I go on in the belief that I am.

where the dreams become rhymes
and the
rhymes become seams that stitch
together the dreams
he beams in delight that the
thing comes out right.

but I’m flying a flag for the hacks
when the Kings take it all
leaving nothing but me
‘on my jacks’

and the rhymes cease to flow,
solo is the pits where you’re
sliced and in bits
I have cried,
I have died
here I am still presuming
assuming the role
however hard that may be
of being a bard,
presumptuous enough
to call what I write

© 2017, John Smallshaw.