what’s it worth to you
if i lock you out of here
the defective machine shouted
worth enough to hunt and search
for another means to
keep your poetic commitment?

or is it easier
to lay naked in the sun
reading the poems of others
while ignoring the faint mumbling
of your voice attempting
escape

what’s it worth to you
is it easier
to find distraction
in the green leaves
of summer
in plants and dirt
that call you
to unfold their
color-box
beauty
so that you can enjoy
the calm
it brings

what’s it worth to you
is it easier
to bury your need
in a visit
to the big screen
using the excuse
that you’ve lost
the storyline midway
or that you gave in
to a tale that
does not concern you?

its the perfect reasoning

the memory of writing
yesterday
becomes today’s
lazy lines
what is it worth to you..
after all