Boxes of poetry

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 boxes of henscratches and poetry in a lot more boxes. INdescipherable fir aNYONE - EVEN ME - THE ONE WHO WROTE IT IN THE FIRST PLACE.