Member-only story
Reading Between the Lines
A poet’s existential moment upon reading his own book
I just read my entire book of poetry
and was amazed to discover
that what I wanted to say
never actually made it to the page.
Odd.
I thought I had written it down,
I even have memories of it
late at night, alone in my room,
with only the moon
and a few wolves howling inside me,
but I couldn’t find it anywhere.
Gone. Completely gone.
Oh sure, there were lines,
but they were more like those you find in a bank,
lines that barely moved, filled with fidgeting people.
I think somebody must have stolen them
when I was out to lunch.
The good lines were definitely gone,
though I did manage to find a few
interesting spaces in between the lines,
really good spaces, open spaces,
spaces that seemed as if
they were just about to be filled
with what I really wanted to say,
