My words are worth so little
At best, a thousandth of a painting
Pulled from the cold, pallid, hands
Of a starved artist

I can claim no such title
Nor any such praise
For when I am gone
My words won’t refect the depth of life

What I see in myself
Is word without purpose
Words upon my breath-
Equally worthless

There is no sadness in these thoughts
But peace in knowing
That my forlorn musings,
As well as myself,
Will come and go softly
Like the gentle blowing of the wind



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