As a writer what am I,

I must admit I'm no average guy,

This is a common thought by no small amount,

So many times it's been heard, I think I've lost count,

Many a person says they know what I am,

Whether it is Steve, Jack, or old grandpa Sam,

I've hit this predicament so much before,

But I've come to my answer...I AM A METAPHOR!

"Why?" you ask "would he call himself that",

When there are plenty of others like a dog or a bat,

But if you merely know me by what you've seen,

Then lend me your eyes if you would be so keen,

Myself is to my poem, as heat is to flame,

If you don't understand you've only yourself to blame,

For if you judge me without giving my words the chance,

Your luck is to be smitten with your judgment as your lance,

I'm not one for a single face,

And your reading of this is the start of the race,

What I share with my continuous rhyme,

Is the premature judgment which is due to be crime,

Your interpretations differ much like a color's hue,

For none of you can claim to be true

I leave you my writing to decide what opinion is due.

Like in the metaphor your opinions may vary,

But with my writing, read and don't tarry,

You all interpret this poem as "to each his own",

As is true to the metaphor, which has hit me at home,

While reading this, the metaphor may not be found,

But I assure you to its not bound,

For much like the metaphor and also like me,

The interpretation only you might see,

For though I am vague and I have much to presume,

can you make something of my writing, or is that too much to assume.

Photo by saturnsvu