Saturday, March 13, 2010

all the time in the world

the push
or pull I
used to feel
that compelled me to write
has taken
root in my fingers
and ears

I write
six string sonnets
that the world may never hear

like the words
I so often wrote
that the world may never read

like the
paintings in my mind
that may never reach the canvas

like the thoughts
that I dream
never seeing their realization

I pour my heart into my passions
but time is the constraint
if I had all the time in the world
I'd probably be

just as sad

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