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Rating: 3.8

I was writing a poem a day,
sometimes two. It constituted
evidence that I was alive.

For some people,
mere breathing
does not do that.
Even 'I think...' is not enough.
Their credo's 'I create,
therefore I am.'

I was daily proving
my existence to myself
with a poem, but
I did not feel alive
most of the rest of the time.

And so I began to dive
in search of an 'I Am'
to rest in. I sought the flow
from which the world was born.
My pen dropped
into its pool of Silence.
I haven't found it yet.

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Linda Hepner 21 December 2005

Max, don't do this! To any of us!

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Ivy Christou 30 December 2005

Max I loved this poem of yours.. it's your silent cry as a poet when you think that inspiration has left you just because you write less poems. I can assure you that your muse is still there even if you have understood yourself a bit more and you have stopped to write poems in search of your inner truths. HBH

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Charles Chaim Wax 21 December 2005

the same stuff in stars in Max burning and burning until there is nothing but burning and each breath needs no explanation simply going about the business of keeping Max alive and kicking and more importantly singing in own song in his own voice a wonderful poem exploring the the true meaning of our birth and death

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Poetry Hound 21 December 2005

Yikes. Kind of moody and depressing, I would say. I agree with John about the last line though.

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John Kay 21 December 2005

Max...the last sentence is one of the best conclusions I've read in some time. It is so silent but so loud, lost but found. It is two places at once and, therefore, poetry. I don't see how anyone could give this a low score.

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Ben said that sometimes...we, poets, artists, people, go through 'compassion overload' - too much goes on around this time of year....I get the 'blues' too....Silence is a place I go to to heal myself....but I can't stay there...there's too much to be done.

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