The Sun rises,

Birds fly,

a man missing both legs

-he runs-

better than me,

better than you,

but WHY?

a poem can make me Somedays,

another will bother me relentlessly,

will each Breath

re-aline the words,

to make them work.

It is still not right...

My own words allow the world to see me,

as I am,

or who I want to be.

Its funny,

my poems know more about me than all the people surrouding me.

It offers a somewhat private way,

to whisper my secrets,

and sometimes the secrets slip right past them.

Others,

when confronted,

when asked,

all I need say,

"It is only a poem."

 -A.M.M.