I struggle,
With wondering,
If I can’t possibly,
Have something new to say,
Out of a thousand well spent pencils,
My own pen is pointless,
And of a billion books,
My pages are useless,
The swirling symbols redundant,
My signed name is a lie,
And a plagiarism,
No,
My words are my own,
Are new,
For a generation,
Yes,
The ideas are the same,
The flavors of old dishes,
Served on new plates,
To ****** tongues,
No,
Just as Rassouli,
Paints what others,
Have already,
known,
But never seen in color,
So can I write what others have felt,
But never read.