My life is a poem,
Written by my creator.

I live through a poem of words
Not thought up by me
Or anyone here.
Why can’t I know what will be written?

Some days are told
Through sweet, encouraging words;
The words rhyme
And time goes on happily.

Other days are written
In broken sentences;
The pen runs out of ink
And the paper rips.

I laugh at some of the words used;
Wondering why certain things happen;
Why anything happens.

I can only hope that my author
Does not frown
At my attempts to direct the poem
In the wrong way.

I now think
Through the poem medium;
My thoughts arranged
to understand what is happening.

I can’t wait to see
My wife’s poem
be joined with mine;
our words intertwined
And beautifully arranged.