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