I don't know where I’ll be,
when who ever buys my book to read.
I was just writing the date on my new
notebook, and these thoughts came to my mind.
Sometimes when I'm going over some
writing I see the date on the paper,
and it brings me memories of
how I felt at the time when I
wrote those poems ,
Those notes, they have the flavor
of me. My intimate thoughts my most
saddest and happiest moments of
My poems my notes my
stories and my hands, they are one.
One memory in all together.
The way my hands clinch my
writing my every move of prose
I don't know who
Will want to read the writing coming
from a stranger a none-known poet.
From lonesome I, no one
knows who she is
I cherish every letter,
word and phrase my hands have writting.
Because all of this has been to me a wonderful
companion of my lonesome life of appetence to feed.