Old Poem (Re: “Just,” 26 February 2004)

I found a poem from almost seven months ago

The strange thing is

It’s the poem I wanted to write this week

How did my words

My thoughts

My feelings

Find themselves in organization

On February 26?

I sat baffled as I read it

A little relieved

But also quite disappointed

It was like opening the cupboard for something to eat

But finding I had already consumed the entirety of its contents

My appetite in times past lead to my current hunger

And so the emptiness inside me will find no relief

Still I wonder about that poem

If I should leave it at that

Or if I should try to find more words

Another outlet, maybe

But I don’t have a way with colors (like you)

Or with music

Or with clay

Or with wood

Or even with words

All I can do is continue to eke out a paper existence

Though meager it may be

One other outlet I’ve found:

My tears

They shall not be an influence on you

Only a method for drowning my pain

Which, ironically, sharpens with each fallen tear

So it remains an old poem

Come to my keyboard seven months ago

Hidden behind my shame for a summer

But returned to me once my sight was restored

Just an old poem

Renewed with each tear I cry

TL

9:18pm

5 September 2004