The Writer

Sun-burnt faces, sweaty little beings,
screaming at the top of their voices.
a confusing array of little legs, hands and balls.

Lying on that wire hammock between those citron trees,
On an adventure with the secret five, tinned fruit,
tongue sandwiches and orangeade - that's you.

A nervous silence, a flutter runs through the class,
marked sheets of math and science reach each hand.
A sigh of relief from the future geeks.

She walks in in her crisp cotton saree,
her oh-so-perfect diction tags along.
She reads out your essay, and gives you an A - that's you.

Nubile images of sexual revelry, bits from cyber space;
an all new world of excitement for the newly pimpled.
Excesses of all kinds find release.

He touched her there, he felt him there, she fondled her there;
words of erotic passion create orgasmic imagery;
have to wait for the next literotic chapter - that's you.

They process thousands of lines of 0s and 1s
stitch up wounds, treat every illness and pain.
and build underground tunnels to see it all begin.

What do you do for a living - I write.
What do you do for fun - I write.
What will you always do - write; that's me.

This is poem 4 for Robert Lee Brewer's April PAD 2011 Challenge.

Prompt: "Type of Person" Poem