The Poem The poem rests inside my head, Like carvings set in stone. And all I have to do is cut away, The words that arent my own. Every singing bit of rhyme, Is like a memory. So all I have to do is shed, The parts that arent me. One thing I often wonder, As I chop the chips away, How much of me is taken with, The message I convey. With all the mass of messages, The scriptings that Ive cleft, When I set out the last of them, Will anything be left? NicknamedBob . . . . April 6, 2004
LOL
I've seen this someplace. :)
Excellent poems. Thanks.