Is not in my pen,
Not in these words.
Not in my breath,
Speaking broken verbs.

It not my book
Of lost sorrows,
Or writing audascious
Hopes for lost tomorrows.

It is when I fight
To get out of here,
Lost in the poem
With life oytside so near.

The curse of words
Is that we are there but not,
Writing thé moments
Where present eas forgot.

I take the time
To take the time,
A moment in its pursest
With no reason or rhyme.

Just be.