In a perfect world, oh the things I would do!
Everything would change, from my shirt to my shoe.
But one thing I would like to change drastically,
The ability to write for a living, and live fantastically.
To write, to write, what a joy that seemed before,
In the midst of the school year, however, it seems like such a chore.
College essays, school essays, essays galore!
What once captivated me has suddenly become a bore…
But still, the romantic notion of writing to sustain
Is a beautiful thought that erases the pain.
We learn in Palmieri’s class to create and to write,
Scribble away children, without worrying about wrong or right!
And so, we each meander along paths all our own
Our individual styles and flairs to privately hone.
Once a week, the braver of us share a piece,
Some read hard, some smooth as grease.
And yet the grease of deceit remains a constant smear
On those who claim that your work did they endear.
In a perfect world, to be real is to live proper
No distinction between prosper or pauper.
To write for life, to live for scribbles
A wish that the back of my mind nibbles.
A dainty idea, a lyrical work, a flowing canvas of literature
Fills my mind with the very essence of linguistic grandeur.
My own name would be extolled, last name Loard, first name Whit…
But, I sigh and remember…
It’s not a perfect world, is it?