Writing
To be able to write
take flight
in other lives.
Wanting to write
finding with fright
I write only of ... me.
For what do I know
of minds that grow
outside this skull?
how can I share
what's hidden in there
when all I know
is ... me?
The writing of me
I find to be
a considerable bore:
depression deep
confession leak
insanity peek
and a chore ...
no more.
Caring to share
all the lives
I have led
yet I dread
no one will know
or care to see
the I of me.
The eye
does not see
The I in me.
The nose with gaping holes
they go where?
I've not been there.
Inside the mind
where to find
the Me
the mirror does not see?
so pen in hand
I stand ...
and stand
and stand
and stand .....
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