once upon a time
there was an I
who believed

that writers
wrote poems
and that words
were poetry

the I
would write
and write
and the words would drop
from the I's pen
onto crumbling paper
that was torn
for effect

and create lines
and lines
of empty poetry
that the I
would snort
when the I
was alone

one day
before the moon left
and the sun rose
and the I's eyes closed

the I discovered
that the real poem
was the person
across
the room