Writing To Myself
It's like I am a stranger,
it's like I am not in the room,
it's like a ham sandwich without the ham;
the ham is on a butchers hook in old London town.
Peas pudding and jellied eels overflow,
stain this page,
make it look like a poem, but not much,
make it look like anything, - but not much.
What I am always trying to say is not much.
One day I am going to make a book
out of the spindrift of spiders, take the credit
from the thoughts of a stranger.
Call him out for being an unknown
in an unknown land.
Until then I will keep this book shop open
but only on moonless nights
when there are no strangers to overhear.
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
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
