I ask
the pages before me
looking for answers.
All that responds is another
poem.
Are there too many poems?
Can there be too many?
No one criticizes emotions,
laughter,
sadness.
Why must poetry be different?
The ink is my tear.
The world my memory.
My hand is the mind.
My arm is consciousness.
My body is the soul.
The poem is I.
Friday, April 15, 2005
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2 comments:
oh, adrian! i absolutely adore the last stanza! it would be a striking first stanza to a longer poem. *nods head* i also find the last stanza of your April 12 poem very appealing. ^_^
There can never be too many! But poetry must be different because of the burden it carries ...
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