Lost Ones

by Sam M. Phillips

There has to be poems lying around

That may never be found,

The ground of my room

Portrays my gloom,

Doom head droning,

I’m atoning

For a lost ideal,

Recording everything I feel

Seems like a real

Waste of time,

And yet it is no crime,

So leave me alone,

I’ve grown strong through this,

I would miss

Out on so much,

Is it such

A burden to you?

I wish I could do

What it is you do,

So why deny

That what I

Do is useful

And meaningful?

.

Still, I’m not so worried

About every hurried

Thought I’ve had,

But I would be glad

If none of them got lost,

Because they cost

Me a lot in life experience,

And so it makes a difference

To me if you see

Them or ignore them,

But I guess I can’t depend

On you to send

Me any money or attention

When every action

I do is selfish art.

.

I don’t know where to start

Looking for these lost ones,

At least my pen runs

On and they will be replaced,

Or perhaps these too will be misplaced,

I’ve raced ahead so fast

That surely it all can’t last,

I’ve seen so much lost,

The cost of time and apathy,

People have no sympathy

For the work of others,

No one bothers

To preserve,

I don’t know if I deserve

History to watch,

For them to catch

A glimpse of who I am—

My name was Sam

M. Phillips,

And I was here—

But I have no fear

If I dissolve into nothing,

We can’t solve anything

With fear.