simply delightful

A Small Price To Pay For Sanity

Every time I sit down,
and decide that it is time to write,
I cannot think up but two words that
might sound satisfying,
and as for writing a poem full
with meaning,
I have yet to find one
when the time is intentional.

It is always while I am walking,
or pacing with no pen that I remember
a time when my Grandfather was still alive,
or the homeless man I stopped and talked
with for an hour just before I dropped five
dollars in the guitar case of a rugged street
performer, and sitting down to recollect these
memories, I realize that I am sitting on the very
bench in the park where I sat in silence
next to a women that I loved, and was never
able to tell her exactly how I felt.
And suddenly a pen seems no substitute
for her smile that night, and…

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