A Pome a Day for a Year

I nearly wrote a poem here about
my aching hands but faltered
at the last minute.

I have been proud of everything put to text;
not everything has been world class
but everything feels like a pome that
at least is me inside.

The hands pome was not so much
as it formed in my head. It was
a boredom and a frown in textual form
and not at all what this place should be.

Pomes from the heart, is what we are
laying on this yellow ground,
not pomes from the head.

The head is not me, it is the other me,
the me that is the me I so often speak as
is the heart me.

I am two in tandem but not in unison
and I struggle against myself
every single hour of the day, but we get by
and we deal and we make the best as we can
because this can never change.

The truth of Veeg is what jumps and lands
without thought process
without timing
from mouth to air
and that is a pome.
I write pomes.
I do not write poems.