I HAVE written many poems
But none has received a kind word
They live and die
These poor poems of mine. I do not store them
I have no copy of any
I write, I enjoy, I share
And then I destroy.

Someone once retrieved a poem
I cast into the trash bin
And hugged it to her heart.
I will keep this poem , she said,
I will keep it,
For it has been penned
From a beautiful heart.

That’s her business
Mine is to do what I do.

And one day, I will write
My last poem
And I will not be there
To destroy
For death will embrace me
And I will not be alive here.

But someone will say
He never thought of himself
As a poet
Yet he has left here
A poem
Let us read it
To his memory
And make it thus
A little of value as he desired
Of the many out there.