James Inman Poet Quatrain

Only A Number

It's only a number you said to me,
you so much younger than I,
yet, thinking about it, I find I agree,
a number in the book of our lives.

I turn each page as if to rewrite them,
but reading the words, they define this inaness.
A boring book of too many pages
in a life of endless repetitive sameness.

My father's book ended on page seventy-four,
a book written in a language I never knew.
Filled with intrigue my mom's on ninety-two, 
a Western Romance that never came true.

Several short stories that I won't speak of here.
Those lives cut short with characters undeveloped,
whose stories I would gladly have traded with my own,
if the jacket was changed and the pages re-enveloped.

Yet, I continue to read this story of me,
as the day of my birth is counted once more,
and pages turn with the briefest of breath,
while my body grows old with a mind I abhor.

The paper has worn and the numbers smeared.
Dogeared by time as each sentence entwines,
I'm trying to find the worth of my story,
but it's just so hard to read between the lines.


11/15/2024

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment

Constance La France July 27, 2026 at 4:24 AM James, its a very deep and beautifully penned poem, I am sure my own story will have high points but lots of tedious pages of nothingness ! James Inman July 28, 2026 at 8:38 AM Hi Constance, It's always nice to hear from you. I'm afraid this write is at least partially about my inability to motivate myself to do anything anymore. Watching profound events taking place in my life without being included, unable to involve myself in the lives of people I care about and finding little pleasure in things I used to be so passionate about. I paid a publishing company to publish a book for me over a year and a half ago. It is a book of floral art photos and poetry. For the last year I have only needed eight more poems to complete the book and have it published but each time I try to write them I delete what I have written and spend weeks trying to force myself to start again. The book is laid out, all of the photos have been taken and all but eight poems have been added but I can't seem to finish it. Probably because there seems to be no reason to finish it. It's very simple and I know no one will want it. Thank you for the kind comment.

Miraj Raha July 26, 2026 at 2:57 AM Glad to return on poetry soup James, if its not too late, i confess that i deleted several of my unnecessary poems and songs. But your poem carries a deep weight of authenticity..... James Inman July 28, 2026 at 8:44 AM Hello Miraj, I'm afraid that I do not come to PS much anymore and it has been a while since I have read anyone's poetry. Thank you for your visit. May suggest, never think of your poems as unnecessary. They must have been necessary for you to have written them and you never know what others might take from those poems that they may find that they need.

Angela Terry July 22, 2026 at 1:18 PM Your imagery let me imagine a weathered volume filled with history of the people whom you mention in the poem. I also sensed a fear of aging here, too. James Inman July 28, 2026 at 8:53 AM Not a fear of aging, just acknowledgement coupled with how life's twists and turns never seem to follow the path that you wish for them to. When I was younger it was exciting, now it's more disappointing. Thank you for your visit.