The Legacy

there must have been a leak somewhere

ink prints wandering off around the corner

perhaps the cat scattered pieces under the couch, behind the fridge, into the litter

sometimes words belong there anyhow

yet these ones seem to escape me

teeter around the corner peeking on my ever moment

yet eluding me whenever i near

you'd think i'd offended them

offered them something sub-par

something much too below standard than a semi-conscious

babble of pixel 'pon pixel

the sexiest of poetry clearly

though perhaps i've avoided trapping syllables between wavy lines of a waterlogged ol' notebook

the romantism of poetry obviously

or better yet, perhaps they are caked on to the goop atop the cajeta squeeze bottle

the sweet and sticky kind of poetry, definitely

though regardless of where words have wandered off to

the writer, the poet, the slave

is still here hoping to make something out of themselves

maybe turn themselves into a worthy story

something people would want to read and not put down

something that would just last a little longer than a lifetime

a legacy.