This Poetry

And so I'm left with a question.
What are words if not spoken?
What are ideas without direction?

As I sit here recollecting;
All the measures I've been reenacting
instead of preparing my
impacting sonnet to our Statement without pauses

I was looking for the clauses
that would bring me some sort of notoriety
I was looking to the words that would write
me out of poverty

The poverty in my mind--
my disconnection from eternity
the aftermath of my insecurities or
victory over death--truth, life, liberty.

In that peaceful endless summer
surrounded by the Sun
I'll be singing praises
I could not have dreamt to've sung

This poetry. This poetry I have no rights to.
And, if I'm failing in my confession.
Then, they'll be no addressing the issue
when I'm wrestling with...my last breath.