There are strands of words I put together at random,
Now I discover there are some spaces between them,
The spaces are filled with music that I did not put there,
Beautiful music from where I know not but somewhere.

There are strings of sentences I manage to combine,
Each ending with a sigh only audible every time
When I breathe inwards collecting the sense of them,
But what meaning in between can be revealed then?

There are small paragraphs I have crafted this night,
That seek only to reveal the brightest of bright light, 
What purpose is the meaning when revealing happens,
Is it a joke, a phrase to ridicule what comes from my pen.

There are longer paragraphs potted with words too sound
To be dismissed like a cavalier wave of your hand,
What can I do I am sitting at the beginning of this page
Looking about me for meanings – this could take an age.

There are pages of words swimming around in pools of blood
That have sweated all the droplets from me – a real flood
Of words, phrases, holding the knives for someone’s back,
Ready am I to shove the blades right in so life is lack.

There are chapters of my life that I wish to happily discard
But I warn myself – life is hard enough but to be this hard?
What is the purpose over creating mountains to climb,
Am I to boast to all and sundry that this work is all mine?

There are books I have in my hand all of them incomplete
Why bother starting another one when I know I will defeat
The very reason why only my words are to be displayed;
Do I conjure a pattern or words only to have them slayed?

There are libraries full of books that I will never read
Nor ever know most of the titles or authors indeed,
This is the paradox, how could I have met these words
And not understood a single one, this is too absurd!

There are streets of libraries but I have ignored them all
I will use my own words – I write them no matter how small
The meaning or how great – to stir the mind into action,
My laurels I have rested too long for my satisfaction.