"Still Being Here Being"

And in my mind a forest grew... A forest of poemsz, that is... And those poemsz grew and grew and grew... Until my mind became the poemsz all around... And my poemsz became the world all around... And my world became my poemsz all around... But where did the poemsz start... And where do the poemsz end...

It used to be that I had boxes upon boxes of poetry. Poetry that gre in my poet tree. Me the poet and my tree. My tree of poetry. I had a bin full of poetry for each theme - elemental me - alphabetical me - the journey of me - but no matter how hard I tried to organize the poetry and organize the bins nothing ever seemed to make sense. My poetry never seemed to make sense to anyone else but me. I even wrote a poem fir one of my bins "No one understands my poetry" was the name of one of the poems. In the end I guess it does not really matter if anyone else understands my poetry. The poetry is not really fir others - it is fir me. By me fir me. If anyone else gets it and helps them connect in some way, then I guess that was meant to be but that is not really the point of my poetry. The point is really fir me. I started writing poetry to try to make sense of things fir me. Perhaps it did help me - at the time - at the thyme - but now all it has yielded is boxes upon...