I sit and write a poem
that has been written
many times before;
Is human behaviour so sterile and predictable
that I cannot write an original thought?
Are all human beings variations
of ones that have gone before?
You watch yourselves and others
going about their petty lives:
filling roles that have been played before;
As the population that has come and gone
the chance of original thought
though the keys are the same each individual
plays the instrument differently
and therefore, each life,
though familiar, is different.
therein lies hope