If the sum of stuff equals life,

I am unfinished. So many things

started–paintings, novels, and yes,

poetry too. Relationships short-lived,

attempts at learning to dance, songs

half-sung, out-of-tune, hovering in

a dusty corner, awaiting a final

chorus. The typewriter is waiting

for another page of my story to be

writ. The canvas is awaiting another

warm coat of paint. And this poem,

lain bare–always needing something



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