Why A Poem Never Belongs to The Author

Vengence, unguarded,

has all but been abandoned.

Anger, the burning coals the buddha talked about,

drop them.

See their sparks as they grind into the Earth,

then darken into nothing.

No time like the present,

no fear but the accented.

This is where I should always be,

yet it means nothing when you stay stagnent.

Repeated themes again in my work,

if there is a unity in here,

be it so.

It is mine as it is yours.

Each word, a thought.

Each thought, an idea.

Each idea, a gift.

A gift for your own utility

and choice.

Published by James J Jackson

I'm a poet from Sacramento, CA.

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