Friday, March 18, 2011

Untitled Poem

3 March 2006

When I sit quietly
My life opens up
Like so many pages of a book

The pages do not fit
From here to there
But I know they are all mine.

Some are boldly writ' upon
In brightly colored ink
While most are simply penciled in

Crossed out, erased or written over
Though some thoughts may be
None are ever truly changed, or forgotten

Though things of beauty all around
May be, they are never to be seen.
My self denial censors all true goodness.

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