This is excerpted from the chapbook Maybe, written by J. LeBlanc. Mr. LeBlanc resides in California. Mr. LeBlanc starts out with a bang:
I was born in an 82 year old lady’s living room, a tongue-tied bastard and an underdog against life itself.
Wow. When they say “you need a first line to grab the reader”, that is what they are taking about.
In the later poem I Can’t, he continues to deliver:
I can’t write about the darkness that my light cannot see.
I can’t write of all the possibilities that don’t exist for me.
I’ll write about what little truth I’ve gathered on this walk
but I can’t write about the key as I stare into the lock.
I can’t write about the end while I get lost along the way
I can’t write of all the work when I’m engaged in play
I’ll write the words I’m given if my hand will just behave
but I can’t write about my freedom while I’m stuck here as a slave.