Jul 2018
Slips of paper,
lines desperately written
before they are forgotten
the ink silenced;
hidden.
left to breathe,
gathered with others
growth of meaning
the fortunate ones remain,
disassembled,
realigned and set firm.
These words,
the chosen silent ones,
fixed and shared
hold power to be heard
when read
our thought's expression,
our passion.
Do we choose the poems
or do they choose us?
lines desperately written
before they are forgotten
the ink silenced;
hidden.
left to breathe,
gathered with others
growth of meaning
the fortunate ones remain,
disassembled,
realigned and set firm.
These words,
the chosen silent ones,
fixed and shared
hold power to be heard
when read
our thought's expression,
our passion.
Do we choose the poems
or do they choose us?
Can't explain why I write these scribbles, do I choose to or have to or both. Do I want to write or do I have a choice? We each have our own reasons, perhaps it's a mixture of all combined. Either way I'm glad I do, even if it's often pathetic.
Written by
grumpy thumb
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