And I,
without a pencil,
thought of myself
as weak.
I, without a pencil,
have lesser goals
to seek. Still I,
without my pencil,
hold a desire
to disclose thoughts,
decent or deviant,
depending on mood
or misfortune,
gains or loss.
Without a pencil
in hand, my
mind remains a mess,
though not enough
to permit me
to forget
a day, a scoundrel,
some lover, another
night or the one
to follow.
My shortcomings,
sinfulness,
or solitude, I,
with or
without a pencil,
remember.

04/01/2019                                    j.g.l.

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
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