I want to write a poem every day

but I can’t promise they’ll be any good.
I’m just here for the process of purging
and rising and fusing together the magic
of what happens in-between midnights,
what sorts of magic we make in the
cramped corners of our individual worlds.
Maybe I’ll write about the potential
of an empty park bench in October,
the one adorned with dandelion yellow
leaves, not yet crisp, just fallen.
Maybe I’ll write about the act
of not sitting there, of choosing
to keep walking despite my backache,
to keep the potential alive, to give
the bench another life, not my own.
I wonder who will sit there,
if he’ll write poetry, something good
or not good at all, about the girl
who passes, unaware of him
or perhaps already capturing the art
of how he moves his pen.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: