i read somewhere
that poems
aren’t worth the paper they are scribbled on

maybe it was me in a dream

one of those dreams
the kind where i do nothing
but write
the vacantness of it

i never recall what i wrote
in those dreams
i dream
of writing

probably just blank sheets
maybe dream doodles in the margins

possibly
a masterpiece

i read somewhere
or maybe
it was an errant dream thought
that poems
aren’t worth the paper they are scribbled on

so i write mine on my phone
save a tree
from that ignoble fate