Time pushes through like an eager flower emerging from its bloom;
years pass—and people too. Why must Change hold the hand of Time?
Can they not walk separately? No; intersection is inevitable,
and everything deteriorates to nothing.
Yet we deny it.
The flowers we’ve planted will eventually wilt,
but we keep them around, because they look pretty.
Or once did.
Beauty, like words, cannot be preserved.
The ugliness will soon surface,
and it will be nothing but a thorn on a rose.
Words were meant to be spoken, but once they are said,
time robs us, and we can no longer hear them.
Writing could be an answer, but if words were meant to be written,
paper would not be flammable.
I’ve been told that real poetry is when
a piece of the writer is being laid down on paper.
If this is true, then anyone could be a poet.
Except for the illiterate.
But not everyone writes down their feelings,
in knotted or loopy script,
and not everyone wants to.
You cannot tell me that my poetry is not real
just because it may not carry a piece of myself with it.
How can I attach myself to paper with simply one staple?
I could write a good poem, but why would it be good?
Opinions are different, and they often change.
As does everything else.
Paper does not conserve thoughts.
The beauty of this text that I’ve created will linger in minds for a few seconds
and then will become unappealing.
But what you do not see is the emotion that I’ve planted in these words
and the pieces of me that are screaming from this paper, jammed between lines.
If you do notice this, then please excuse the many imperfections;
after all, beauty cannot be contained in these small letters.
I’ve been writing for a long time, and each second brings a new mistake.
But we eradicate our mistakes,
because somehow eraser shavings look better on paper than our own words.
And when all the emotion that we’ve created is scribbled out,
nothing will be left but the whipping of wasted seconds
on broken clocks.