I went to the bookstore today
to look at poetry.
There were lots of poems about
winter fields, and
narratives of war
and sex.
I couldn't find any on
emotion, inspiration,
heart and soul,
love.
I don't care about
fields or war or sex.
I care about
pain and longing
joy and truth
heartbreak and bitterness
love and hate and fear and people.
I care about
smelling the dirt and grass
holding hands in the dark,
footfalls on the pavement,
the way music breathes.
I care about
finding what's been lost
and losing what's been found.
I care about
hard choices and bitter ultimatums
city streets and flashing lights
who I am, who she is, who we are.
I realized
this is why I write poetry.