Some Need Poetry

Some need poetry. To hide it. To hide it in the open To write what all need to hide To write my life as seen by the other, though the other may not know what they see. Write it however, which ever way you can. On the paper of an ordinary book. Ink made from ash from the paper you burn. There on the ocean it is always full. Hungry and harmless no longer a room. I look away, the confessions to great from the propaganda all watch on T.V. Moving mouths agape, that say nothing. Retained by morality the contract they sign, if they say nought else but what the owner has them say. They were given no food, Some will die from the cold.' How many'? It's a big vast meadow. Filled with bait for the hook, with no eye. Now erased. Where do I pee. If they catch me, I will be a sex offender. Where do we pour out that beer, that caused all this fear. I must steal some water, to drink and wash my face. I think I have yet some pride, still a thief. One of two, could but say hands that shake looking for warmth in the ice cold ground: I will stay. 'Each one' Can't Write: One vast sea of history again, before. I don't know. Some need to make history. History counts its skeletons by the mountain. They dare not cry, for their eyes will freeze shut while they are covered alive.