Member-only story
The Unwritten Poems of My Life
Did it really happen if it hasn’t yet been written?
The echo of my shoes
on wet pavement, the crooked
smile of my father the last
day I spent with him, my wife
reaching for my hand in the middle
of the night, finding me, sighing,
back to sleep, fleeting images
creeping into my head as I lay
awake in the early hours
of morning …
me they all whisper,
it is me you want.
I live within the poetry
of my life, lines yet to be
written, life yet to be felt.
Will my life exist
if I haven’t created
it line by line?
Is this my life or just a flash
dancing in my head, needing
my words to give it breath?
Do we give life to the words
or do the words give us life?
Even the incoherent scribbles
scrawled in my scratched
notebook gives me hope
that today, or maybe tomorrow,
or maybe days which not yet
have found me, I will write
my poem of life… those few
words proving I was here,
proving I lived, those small
words flowing through me,
the words that made
my life mine.
