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.