I write a poem
How much does it owe its existence to me?
a careless word from another, an image or a thought inspired it,
and as it soon as it leaves the safe womb of my mind
to the harsh clinical whiteness of paper,
it is imprinted, exposed, vulnerable
in a dimension of its own making,
forever out of my reach
Can it only ever mean what I meant it to?
and people interpret it differently,
see something in it that in it I shall never see,
taking away a part of it from me for their own
Or can I say, fondly, my poem's growing up?
Oct 19
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