My life in lists: it's called listography,
with goals and names and facts and my bared soul,
lists scrawled and sketched, scraps tossed out like debris,

and strewn around the room. Parts of a whole,
lists make up who I am, my self revealed
with goals and names and facts and my bared soul.

With time and effort spent, it's lists I yield.
Lists make me; I make lists. The words are scratched.
Lists make up who I am, my self revealed.

And there with letters, numbers, so mismatched,
with drawings, cut and paste, all unrehearsed,
lists make me; I make lists. The words are scratched

in lines on paper, screen, and mind, and burst
from thought to page, from hand to pen, and more,
with drawings, cut and paste, all unrehearsed,

they spill from me. I write and I explore
my life in lists. It's called listography:
from thought to page, from hand to pen--and more
lists scrawled and sketched, scraps tossed out like debris.