I write poems
that nobody hears [yet]
silent songs
of ink and paper;
meaningful scrawls,
ideas I jot down.
they’re testimonials to me living.
I write these things down
because I don’t have a camera
or anything more high-tech.
I write because
my memory can fail me.
And when I get older,
I will look through these scrapbooks
and make my own pictures
from this black and white.
Foaming at the Mouth about Myself
Posted: June 25, 1993 in PoetryTags: Black, Memories, Song, White
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