a poet in love

“I’ve always wanted to be a poet,”

I told him, beneath that big oak tree.

“It seems I just can’t help the words that

Flow freely out of me.”

He looked at me for a moment, and then

Chuckled to himself.

“Why would you want to be a poet

When you could be literally anything else?”

My stomach turned and my heart grew heavy,

As I realized the man I loved

Just simply wasn’t ready.

For I could write sonnets upon sonnets

About how his dimples formed

Or perhaps a haiku or two about

My favorite looks he’s worn.

You see,

My love is a well buried deep inside my chest

And it is only for him

That my words seem to flow at their best.

But what good is an ode or a ballad

To a man that refuses to listen?

How much love can a poet recklessly give

Despite her broken condition?

image by sarah bahbah