The page

How is it I,

Visiting this page again,

See only smudges,

Blots of ink,

And cannot read the words I wrote?

Words that I penned,

To stand as truth,

Marred by others,

Seeking to correct my thoughts.

How is it ,

That this page now stands,

As testament ,

To other lives,

And other minds,

And other dreams?

This life was once so precious,

To me but now,

Stands as a reminder,

Of the folly

Of the poet soul.

Seeking to find it’s way

It is remolded,

Mashed up,


Forced to fit

Other peoples dreams.

This page

Once filled with cursive script

Lies blackened

With the inky stains

Of other spirits hopes.



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