stealin' bits of my soul

loss
loss of words
of vision of my inner thoughts
stolen
wonder if i'll ever get it back
my back pack,
but moreso, my words
those thoughts
writ
in my sketchbook
those drawings
a letter to my twelve
year old
waiting patiently for
me to get my act together
maybe not so much waiting
but living and growing while i stagnate
wasting words on
paper that will be stolen
and maybe never read
it'd be nice to think somebody is appreciating
my efforts
rather than that they rest amid
wads of paper, food & broken bottles
in some dumpster somewhere
my broken dreams
amid the detritus.