Writers write, so

If I do, am I?

I sit myself in boxes

sometimes two or three at a time

I sit and I stare and I do but I dare

not leave my world of rhyme

There is reason in stanzas

each with four lines

There are no shadows

There is no grime

In my metered verse 

of cool rain and shine

there is a lullaby hidden

as the clock keeps time

I sit myself in boxes

sometimes, two or three at a time

I sit and I stare I know not where

Seeking an undeniable sign

In my neutered verse

of plateaus and a white sea

there is nothing sudden

no depths unperceived

There are seasons in my boxes

that don't change with time

They open and I close

Like an interminable mime

I sit myself in boxes

sometimes two or three at a time

I sit and I stare like I really don't care

That I spit stereotypes in every line

A day begins, 

from my boxes I see

The sun goes up, 

I see it and I close

There are no shadows in my boxes

No shadows I can see

For I am blind in my boxes

And things shine wantonly

I sit myself in boxes

sometimes two or three at a time

I sit and I scare of boxes that aren't there

And sell a dozen pairs of wings for a dime

Today begins

from my boxes I rise

I take stock of the number

the colour and the size