Cars riding by the house, as I sit outside and write.
Writing down with pen and paper, ideas and thoughts together,
to make my meaning of life become more real to me.
Reading what I write after being done, I contemplate what I think I want.
It never seems to be the same thing twice, so I continue to sit and write.
One day when it all adds up and seems to make some sense, I'll know that I am finally done and write myself an exit poem, letting it sit upon a shelf to gather dust.
As other poets come along and do the same thing I have done - only writing in their own words - which will be different than my own.