November 8 Poem

What will I do with this pile of notebooks?

Will anyone ever be interested in reading

these musings, these words that bled

from my heart onto these pages,

late at night when I sat alone in a

quiet house wondering if I would

always be alone, if there would ever

be an escape, or if I would always

be captive to my circumstances.

Will anyone ever feel these words

wrap around them and keep them

warm on a cold night? Will these

words ever drift over someone

in their dreams and give voice

to their thoughts? Will these words

ever release someone from their pain,

their suffering, give hope to someone

sitting up late, alone in a quiet house,

wondering if they will ever be free?

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