I wrote the words, and
they were good.
Very good,
but
No one bought them.
I carried them around
in pockets which had been empty
until the words were wrinkled and torn
and,
I threw them away.
I wrote some more --
new words, new visons.
They filled my pockets and warmed my soul.
I tried to reach someone,
to touch a soul,
But my words are still in my pocket
Wrinkled,
Torn,
But old friends, who keep me company,
And touch my soul.