The Fraud

There are those times I feel a fraud
For writing words with beat and rhyme
Should not a poet’s words be fraught
With sadness, anger, or with grime?

I’ve lived a mostly blessèd life
With sorrows few and far between
I’ve faced less than my share of strife
Most conflict, where I haven’t been

What right do I then have to write
When hopelessness is not my lot?
When I can sleep a restful night
When there is so much that I’ve got?

Although my life could be much worse
I’ll stay a charlatan of verse

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