Irony

I will not write me in rhyme
Or self-centered rhythm
I will not sketch myself with words
Or paint my soul in line
I will not wipe my tears with paper
Or hide my scars in ink
I will not bury my fears in blog
Or type each thought I think
And when you read the words I write
The letters woven the way I weave
You’ll see yourself in place of me
The world the way I see
I am hidden in the stacks-
Of leather-bound manuscripts
And in everyone you read
Will be written more of you