My Words

I can never hope to be as good

As Dickinson or Keats:

My words are very feebly put

And I am bad with rhymes and patterns.

Yet every so often

The words spill out,

They lilt, songlike, onto the page,

And I feel that they are perfect.

Profound.

Beautiful.

Strong.

 

Perhaps if my own poor poetry

Can speak so much to me,

Another may enjoy it, too.

My thoughts may help another through

This murky business of living

And give them a little light.

Relief.

Happiness.

Connection.

 

Most people will probably think

That my talent is ordinary and meager,

Nothing to catch their minds.

But I write not for the critics, the experts, or the masses.

I write for the one.

I write for me.

I write for you.