What Am I

I might be strange enough to be
a queerer lot to my kin.
Yet I am tame to those insane
least lies become my sin.
Thought that I can conjure here
are different, not unknown.
Poetic feats of my delight
might best describe my tomes.

How can I be a poet when
I do not share my dreams?
My musings of nocturnal bliss
do not instruct my streams.
Instead I write upon a whim
the thoughts within my mind.
A point of view I give to it
a philosophic rhyme.

Surely no philosopher
resides within my head.
Insight and depth I do not have
to pin out like a thread.
The thoughts of now a fleeting pass
to superficialness.
Perhaps a lyrical incline
explains my wordiness.

A song-write I can never be
for thoughts of mine can't sing.
My words on top inadequately
conform to simple rings.
The repeat of a simple plan
my words do not conform.
Then do I speak as I can see
the simple truth informs?

I could not be the common man
who gives it like he knows.
For all I think is anything
but common place to sow.
My notions of reality
conflict with normal kinds.
I could be a satirist
as irony unbinds.

Satire thrives on manifest
analyst I cannot give.
Ironic use of the obvious
runs through me like a sieve.
What I try to offer up
is commonplace and droll.
The least of which I likely am
quixotic like a troll.

Pessimist at times rings true
but optimist bares out.
These two within reflecting a
strange harmony so stout.
A balance of the polar ends
so temper is the rule.
I guess I'm me despite this jest
my brian the awkward tool.