I’ve heard a writer should never apologize for his work. If I didn’t feel the compulsion to put a poem up here, I would work on this more. As may be: like a little boy who’s never quite clean enough for company, “it’ll do.”
for fifty years plus five or six
he carried words he wrote. they
traveled in one banker's box:
to everywhere he'd stay.
they seldom saw much light.
he carried dreams for less than that—
they died in his mid-life. he feared
his will, lost hope, discerned no path.
life handed him ways he found weird,
brought a future bright.
throughout bright hopeless times he wrote
to capture what he felt. his
prose earned bread but poems' notes
sustained his soul—it is
what kept dull paths away.
electrons now contain his thoughts,
self-published at his whim.
without his dreams he found he'd bought
release from what trapped him.
dreams died but words found day.
17/100
all the voices in my head 