Poets Are A Weird Mob:

I get up before the sun,

And before the household,

So I can write poems for you,

It comes out of my fingers.

In reams.

One day when I finally meet you,

I will give them to you and,

Unless you are a poet,

You may not understand,

The significance.

You’ll hand them back,

And with a half smile,

Politely say, “That’s nice,”

And I’ll know: they were,

Too long, too childish,

Too unnecessarily tender,

Not profound & brilliant enough.

And I’ll think “nice,”

They were nice!

Is that even a word?

Do we even have it in our language?

Can you break that down for me?

Can you think of other words instead of that?

Can you elaborate at all?

And I’ll be tempted to say,

“Maybe you should take an English class,

To increase your vocabulary,”

But of course I can’t say┬áthose things because,

Then I’m being picky, arrogant,

Vitriolic & spoiling for a fight,

And I don’t want to be,

Accused of those things again,

And then you’ll try,

To have sex with me,

But the thing is,

It’s not about nice and

Certainly not about sex.

So then I’ll be alone,

Once more dreaming about,

My next one-true-love,

…Where for art thou?