Wired Poem by Edwina Reizer

How much more time have I left to write?
It seems my pen is tired.
I cannot attribute any of this
to me, for I am wired,
Wired in every sense of the word
in ways I alone can feel.
And no one can dip in to my sensitivity
nor can they ever steal
what it is that creates my content.
For that is heaven sent.

I think I've lived every day as blind
but I don't remember why?
Whatever the reason, it matters not.
What matters before I die
is to accept what life has offered
and be at peace in my heart.
So I'll pick up this tired pen again
to see if more ink can flow.
If I see more words on my page
maybe being wired will go.