Date: 2007-11-28 02:28 pm (UTC)
Whenever I think I'm not good enough,
I ruminate upon my wealth of friends
Who're not afraid to fill my screen with fluff
Or send my iambs, lines with lovely ends.
And if their verses seem more coarse or rough
Than other effort rises and ascends,
I know true love can sing from voices gruff
As well as from a pen genius transcends.
You are a poem. When you write to me,
I know that poems should not mean, but be.

(With apologies to Archibald MacLeish)

*hugs*
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