I Was A Writer...

I was a writer long before I was a whore;
When words were candy and I was greedy.
How my thirst was for the imagined ever more;
When parents were books and I was needy.

I wrote of gallantry before I knew what it meant;
Practiced lines on beaches in sand castled fortresses.
Carrying ink swords onto battlefields of parchment;
Self proclaimed poet, like the haughty pirate, scaling flying buttresses.

Alas, I am writer after my whoreish boredom.
Winsome yet Pensive as unapologetic as vigilant.
Perplexing sweet tomes still beguile my whoredom;
Because now I wager, I have become a miscreant.