Am I escaping responsibilities
following this call, a truancy from
what has been expected of me?
A goal few can see, patterns
I find uncomfortably resting
within the confines of my mind.
Words arrive, from time to time,
is it without thought
or total recall?
Most days I simply cannot
keep up with it all. Progress
few and far between, somewhat
disparagingly, nevertheless I try
to sort out what I mean.
Who is to say, or know, a
satisfaction with so little to show.
Pencils mark the days, my path
and my page, or is it just
my imagination running away.

04/01/2024                                                            j.g.l.

April is Poetry Month
there is meaning