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