I don’t care if you don’t like it, for I am content.

I use my words,

someone’s words, 

for I of course did not create the language;

to make a story, a tragedy,

that drips off the reader’s lips like honey

when they read...

if they ever read. 

I learn of creation. 

I hold it in my hand;

ever so delicate, the little thing

it cries out to be completed,

effort goes into it day by day...

I learn of time. 

Spending what seems like years 

searching for the right word,

it is never there,

until suddenly it is...

I learn of frustration. 

I learn of triumph. 

The words I mangle together

occasionally get out into the world 

sometimes people enjoy them,

sometimes they do not

I haven’t a care,

for I have finished 


I learn of contentment, 

harmony, peace at last. 





This poem is about: 


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