A writer speaks about her writings and what they mean; how much they mean.

   

 They may not seem

                  Much

            these poems

 mere fragmented statements

seemingly placed and scribbled

               Randomly

   —they don’t even rhyme—

         In the cool vacancy

                                of this blank

     paper.

But they mean a lot.

      They

                Mean

                       a Lot.

     More than you think

 and More than

                  You

       will ever know.

            Flowing

     from One’s Heart

The words spread out

               like

            Blood.

   It is Blood, I think.

          offered

     to You, World

  —to Mine World. 

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