To write a poem


What shall I write
I ask myself
On this blank piece of paper
With blue and red lines
What is my answer
I say to myself
As the white draws
My black ink to it
I answered myself
The question I asked
And wrote a poem
That filled up a page

(is life such a stage?)

(I smell the old scarf
and realize that the
songs on the radio in
the background deny
any mention of the
acceptance of a God
fearing youth of today)

What shall I write
As I look at the pen
I do not know...
And thus I begin.


Copyright 2003 by pauly hart