A poem that speaks for itself.


I do not write poetry,

poetry writes me


I steal it from the breeze

that rustles my thoughts,

from the canvas that teases

the cravings of my soul.


I snatch it from the morning mist

rip apart it's buzzing heart

open my clenched fist

and let it return to dust.


I'm a thief, a pauper, a rag-picker

scavenging for words to write.


No, I do not write poetry

I never wished to write

I wanted to be a lawyer

a wife, a mother: something trite.


But you died and left me

this stunning bouquet ‎of tears.

Through shimmering memories and  pain

I find I'm condemned to verse


YOU made me what I am : a  beggar, a waif, a tramp

forever scrounging for words to write.




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