Grateful for my boys
Worried. Worried mind.
Keep them moving forward
To strive, to seek, to find

O ye protective spirits!
Rally round and round
Yes to T.S. Eliot
No to Ezra Pound

                       Amen.

I find it scary to write a poem,
because what if people don’t like it?
Or worse — what if they do,
and it means they’re broken too?

Does it mean they also can’t find
peace and treasure in their mind?
Does it mean they feel the same,
so my pain is not a claim?

The fear, the loss, the pain and everything
If its not mine does it leave me as nothing?

do you ever stare at the computer
an endless gaze into white
That feeling of indecisiveness
How can I turn my emotions in genius
I wish that moment
Could be a poem