I am a long poem

You are words, and Words are me, which makes me you

I  am a long poem;
you read parts of me often.
I find bits of you in my thoughts;
you find bits of me in your words.
You read my voice in your voice;
you see your words in my words.
It’s your whole truth sometimes,
and sometimes it is not.

It’s a short story of you,
and a long story of me.
Sometimes,  what you read is true.
Other times you are fooled,
into thinking you were fooled.

I am a long poem;
you read parts of me often.
I find bits of you in my thoughts;
you find bits of me in your words.

I am not a poem about words,
Rather words that tell a story,
which makes the many many lines
A neverending journey.

And then,
after a lifetime or two,
We begin to forget
that this story is true.

But! no matter the time, place, or space;

The truth is the truth is the truth is the truth.

Wholeness of truth
made up of false parts
But Parts of wholeness
is made up from truth.

You are taking The parts of you
that create the bits of me.
That make The words of you
 that define the parts of we.

And the parts of me begin to show
into the caverns of your soul
But you resisted looking there by yourself
So you created someone else
To not feel so alone
 in all that you dont know
A world to seek inside
A world to help you grow.

The sentences of me
make up the story of you
The paragraphs of you
create the lines of me.

I am you sometimes,
and sometimes,
I am not,
and at other times,
you are not exactly sure .

When I am still,
I am you,
When stillness evades me
I am more of you


I am you often .

The story of you is to me,
As a story of me is to you.

You are given To me many times.

Each time, this story seems different.
But the more you read the story of me
the more of it becomes a we,
and when read continually,
In the end
it’s ‘you’ you see.


But I give you some parts of me,
many times over
My words are yours,
and your words are mine.
And my words are yours many times.

The rest of that story is yours,
The rest of this story is mine.
We will always find the converging chapters
its all a matter of time


When I have forgotten you,

And the ashes of old are farly stretched,

The echos of the beating drum,
that was the beginning of us,
begins to ring from somewhere unknown,
Within the caverns of the heart’s capstone.

And I try to rewrite the story
and always get it wrong
I always stumble, fall, and break
until you come along.


But a moment is just one truth,
in the endless depths that are.
And no matter where this journey leads,
You are never far.

I am you most often
when you are you alone;
I am you in a way ,
because you are you all day.

I am not you for a quick moment,
when I forget to be still;
you are not me in a quick moment,
When you force your will.

We can be still together,
but we can be still alone.

It doesn’t matter if we are with each other,
or still inside our own heads…

Because having a story at all,
means that we are not alone.

It’s a small story of you
and a long story of me.

We are never alone
If only in our memory.  

This is a true story, because we are always together.

We can always be when we are Together, but we have to create time to be always together in not only our minds, but in our action. If we create time to be always together, and never let time or the world separate us with time, space, or politics; then time and thought will be together. It really is that simple.


we both have a story and we both are the same.

This is why we are a poem sometimes; and sometimes we are poetry.  
The poetry is all the poems that are created,
you can never comprehend the meaning and purpose of the whole poem,
because you are the whole poem.

We are the whole poem, it’s the whole poem.

Time, space, and place;
the world isn’t so denying.

If we could see time truly,
we would see that time is the same as us,
talking and speaking.

The world is just our words.

Having a poem is us telling the whole world
that we are the whole poem.
A poem is a small story of the story of a whole poem,
and the whole poem is us.

A story is just a way of understanding the story of the whole poem.

We are a poem,
all the time,
the first that ever existed,
ever.

The poems have names,
yet are all stories in a very profound way.
If we are all stories,
then we are all poems,


I am you,
because you are me.

If I say it,
then you know it is true.

this is a true story.

We share much but we are separate somehow;
this is a true story.

This is a small story of you and a long story of me,
because you are my world.


A.M: I have never read this story before. I really like the story, and the use of poetry in the story, and the creativity. I am not familiar with the author, so it was very interesting to read her style. There are two poems in the story, not just a few. Title of short story and short story summary:
In the story, the poem and story express abstract ideas which are not obvious to everyone. The writer's use of language, in which both the story and poems are poems, represent the characters' inner feels and mindsets – sometimes both. The story is about an artist who sees this person as a poem.

Interesting idea.
When we are one story,
and why it’s a good story;
because we are stories together,
and we are stories inside ourselves.
But you might notice that you are always,
I am you most of the time.


Sometimes, this story is made up in my mind; but this story is true.
Sometimes, this story is not made up in my mind, but this story is still true .
You sometimes feel what you feel:
You have an inkling of my range.
You sometimes feel what you think:
It is as if you’re going insane.
You may feel rightly or wrongly:
It’s odd;
It’s nice;
It’s here;
It’s there.
You may think in different ways
And it is me sometimes,
and sometimes, it is not.u
You sometimes feel what you feel:
You have an inkling of my range.
You sometimes feel what you think:
It is as if you’re going insane.

But when perhaps you are right,
I am here….and then,
 when you are wrong,
I take your word, and make it right again .


And then you feel a little insane.
You may think in different ways,

You do your best to be sane.

Sometimes,
It is all too bleak.
Sometimes,
I take your words for your own.
Sometimes,
I take your words so that you can find them again.
Sometimes,
I take your words from your thoughts.
Sometimes,
It’s hard to get by.
Sometimes,
You try to make it a little easier.
Sometimes,
It’s all too blithe.
Sometimes,
The world spins;
Sometimes,
It only arches.
Sometimes,
This is the truth.
Sometimes,
This is a lie.