Song of my Life; of Myself

Song of my Life; of Myself I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. With every mark of the pencil, the pen, With every key pressed on this tiny machine, My ideas, my thoughts, and my dreams become yours as well. Words float across the paper, weaving patterns and images in your mind, It is as good as any pencil or brush stroke, For I can paint pictures with words rather than colors. The skill of an artist and poet come naturally, flowing out through my fingers from the very heart. Let them embrace your consciousness, sink into their spell, Let them take you away to a place you’ve never been. Let these words take you to where I often visit, if only for a little while. I wish you to experience this as I have. This is why I write, This is why I illustrate. As I walk down the road, listening to the chorus of the birds, I notice where once a strong green friend stood, Now is a space, a stump. It is dead to the world, cut down without thought. Why man would do this to such a healthy being, I myself will never know, But it hurts to know, that now more friends are homeless and have moved away. And those who sheltered under it’s loving boughs in heat of summer, Now must look elsewhere for cover during a summer stroll. Why? Why must they, who could be putting money to more practical purposes, Simply throw it away towards destroying harmless things of nature, Because they have the power to do so? I wish them to see their error, the way I myself have. Time is a trivial thing. Here I shuffle about, constantly busy, until I find that day is far gone. Where does it go? Why is it what only seems to be five or ten minutes, Would in reality be a full hour? Impossible it seems, I’m sure, but it does happen. Constantly I glance up from my work and find that I am out of time. It measures our lives, and while it might help us do more, Couldn’t it actually be creating the illusion that we Have no time for the things that are truly important? Important to ourselves? Our dreams? Our happiness? There is the saying that there are not enough hours in the day, But is that really so? We surely find time enough to do what “needs to be done” But we might say that there are not enough because we had forgotten to partake in activities that feed our passion. Wouldn’t life be better, once we learn to control what we do by the hours instead of the watch controlling us?