Why do we write?
We pour our hearts and souls
onto paper-flowers
for no one to read.

Make sticky, saturated imagery
about a sweet summer song.
And wish
that the words
will make the flora and fauna
of the concrete wall
that is our life,
grow.

Or to bask in them
as glorious sunlight,
and lap them up
like sweet nectar
for the soul.

The Artist
hangs his work proudly,
on the wall.

The Poet
hides his,
in the top draw of his desk.
Underneath old essays
and postcards for places
he yearns to visit.
Does this make them any less,
beautiful?

To take words,
and arrange them pleasingly,
on the page.
After all,
they are for no one,

just me.