Scraps are left for me to feed

lacking beauty in every stroke defined

between places full of grime

collected through my years

and only I can see.

No beautiful moon to bring tears

or tender songs to call mine

no love whispered in my ears

only empty spaces

and a cold bed.

No accusing faces

or committed crime

as I alone wept.

I tried I said, I tried

definition to chaos find

and to everything I said

but broken down I die

with scraps to feed my feeble mind.



3 thoughts on “Scraps

  1. Then let the fire begin. With anger, make it burn bright. Feed it.

  2. While you say you are not a poet then why is this an excellent poem? Life is contradiction. I am a writer. When put ink onto paper, there is power. What comes to the pen is spiritual and I do beleive that you are.

    • Hector says:

      I thank you for such wonderful comment. I am not a man of faith but hold so much of it inside, not a true believer but believe in so much. If spirituality lives in the words we weave together, then you can say I am spiritual.

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