“Why do you do that,
Why do you write these poems?”,
she said as she put her smokes on the table.
I don’t know
I don’t remember starting things.
So why do you continue
you blogger you,
putting your words among these billions of other words
from people like you,
pouring out their lives like salt,
salt which others will sweep away.
Why do you do this anononymous thing, this
insignificant scribbling of
chipmunks on a log?
Because the keyboard is there.
Why does someone pray?
Maybe I’m talking to Him.
Maybe I’m just talking to myself.
Maybe I’m the only one who thinks I’m clever
and I read myself for
my tiny little ego.
I write for me.
When I say waterfall
I see a waterfall,
flowing off the hillside and falling
into a wonderful mist which
settles into a green
pool of spring time
I wash myself in this water.
david michael jackson April 21, 2012 firstname.lastname@example.org