I no longer write poems I write lists I write thoughts I write myself with symbols that we are conditioned to recognize as something meaningful; beautiful
nothing I make is pretty, nice, beautiful anymore I just make a picture and hope there's something of me in it then I wait until someone says it means something I stopped making decisions; from now on, only conclusions
I found a leaf I drew on it for an hour I was inspired to make something beautiful I made it for you I was afraid and I kept it first I pinned it to my desk then it fell, because it was fall I lost it. When I found it in my laundry pile, it was broken, and torn. I can't help but thinking; maybe that's why I'm confused. I can't tell, maybe I'm hurt maybe I'm a leaf.