The Poems Were Coming Night And Day Poem by Shalom Freedman

THE POEMS WERE COMING DAY AND NIGHT

The poems were coming day and night
They were overwhelming me
I was lost from listening to them
Lost and exuberant
Wild and happy

Then days later
I sat down and reread them

And one by one
They were lost

And I was alone
Without any poem

Where are the real poems?

What are these lines now?

Why is life so difficult?

And why is even a single poem of mine
Too insignificant
To be remembered
Even by me?