We've lived together for several years

And we've had our share of fights

Times when we threw things at each other

And had no mercy for the bloodshed

But every time we'd pick up where we were

And dress each other's wounds

Usually I cried and you smiled and we both

Said we were so sorry

No matter how hard the days behind us

And no matter how bad the future seemed

We always put the words together

So they were so delicately placed and stringed

Along in lines and stanzas and whether

Or not we made the morning matter

We still had a profit of our efforts and our

Broken, cracking voices

Blood and ink and thoughts the shrinks can't

Really comprehend or understand or swallow

But then again no one else can quite get the

Interpretations right since there's no wrong

And there's, sadly, not even a right

We work our fingers to the bone if we must

Oh but we mustn't worry our families and friends

And say our apologies again

What should we apologize for this time

The simplicity of the complex rhymes?

Is there no mercy between poetics and reality

Just as there's none between you and me?

And they question us as if we're crazy

Or like you're not real, not likable

But what's more real, more lovable

Than poetry itself?