There are already so many that I
Don't really know what I should do with them
They're piling up and even though I try
It's hard to think of each one as a gem.
Perhaps if I had only written one
Then maybe I would care a little more
Or if perhaps my writing now were done
And I had no more words to set ashore.
I can't even remember them right now
I don't recall a single thing I've done,
My memory has faded and somehow,
This sonnet here will be the only one.
And all the words that spilled out of my head,
Are worthless as balloons made out of lead.
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