(no subject)

[avahgdu]

am i still a poet
if my words will
not come?
and often, it's
an imperfect
rhyme.

i flail for
the pacing, and
rarely succeed
un-iambic
i could never
tell time.

so here i must sit
a blank sheet
before me
staring at, the
silent wall.

knowing inside
that whatever
these words mean
i'm not
a poet...at all.

i still hear music
it lifts and unbinds
me...but my body
is trapped in
this chair.

the song it lives
in me, but my legs
won't listen
if i try to
rise up
i fall.

grace is forbidden
movement a burden
so...i'm not
a dancer at
all.

i once was an artist
my tale told in sketches
and photos of where
i had gone.

but these eyes are
blind now, and my
hands...arthritic
so my story is
only my
song.

my voice now waivers
crackles, un-tuned
i can't find the
right notes
i stall

i'm not a poet
an artist, or dancer
the truth is
i'm nothing
at all.