On Writing Poem by Charles McMullen

What is it in rhyme I want to say,
That's in my head nigh every day.
How is it I let myself feel this way,
When in my home - I cannot stay.
Nobody else can help me feel
The way I do like a turning wheel.
Homely chores must be done,
The answer's not always on the end of a phone.
Publishing a book is an honourable thing,
People read it and begin to sing.
Like a lark on the wing
The emails go ping.
The Royalties come into my purse,
So on with life and curse the hearse.
Writing is so good for the soul,
Whether your'e rich or on the dole.