7-7-97

(Another poem found in the annals of my Brother word processor years. Who knows when this was originally drafted.)   Poetry runs                     through                                 my                                     fingertips. Music plays                     in                      my                          brain. I cannot explain. Is it joy? Is it pain? Will it be sunny? Will it be rain? I cannot

10-18-97

(This poem was a draft that I picked over. I can’t currently find a total rewrite, so I am putting the draft on here as it was edited.)   Sometimes I can’t find my way home so I sit here feeling sorry myself Feeling like I should leave. Winter rolls around I want to die