I have stacks and heaps of poems I have misread.

Where I filled the blanks

which were not meant to be filled.

Where I was supposed to stand stupefied by absurdity of life

I tried to find some order , some reason.

Where I was supposed to sit and listen to worries

I gave advice.Or worse, interfered in lives not mine.

It was always about what I could give to life,

than what life has given to me.

So I have suffered long

trying to fill silences in heart

and words in blank pages.

And never to have made a difference.

Never to have known the beauty

of being incomplete and unfinished.