A thousand poems…
I could try to write my own
But to me they’d all sound the same,
with different times and tones.
Perhaps none of them could catch me
Or the words Ive tried to untangle…
I’ll tell you
I saw them in the trees once,
Heard them in the birds songs,
In the strum of a guitar or the key of a piano,
the rustling of fall leaves under your feet,
Rain drops hugging a window,
In the eyes somewhere between the ocean and the galaxy,
I could try to write a pretty song from a poem,
Learn some new words,
How to better rhyme,
Perhaps some more syntax and grammar lessons,
But it’s all just a personified metaphor of where I once came from.
Some type of misunderstanding to understand the typos:
And when you get to the end you’ll see the certainty in uncertainty
I wonder how can I expect to find the words if it’s possible I never had them to begin with?
How can I explain love and loss if I’m not sure how far it can travel?
How can I claim a poet when you gave me the words.
And today gone with some sort of sentence fragment