Why don’t you paint a pretty picture
You can find my words in the box
under the bed,
my art stacked in a room.
Do with them what you will.
It’s not up to me.
I didn’t make them
for you.
I made them for me,
the words
that say
I was here.
Give them to the professor and let
the learned wave me away
with the back of the fingers,
and let the words float
across the room to the box
under the bed.
I care not.
Greatness
is as fleeting as
this poem,
the moment,
the cry of a child.
I can only make temporary things,
say words that need air
and an ear.
I can only plant
for your God
and mine
seeds that grow and die.
—————————-
David Michael Jackson
