poetry does not have to be
about love.
in fact, you punch-drunk bleeding heart sap-seekers
smother it like mothers driven to
madness,
pillows in your grasp.
my opinion.
let it be, breathe, dream, or feast upon
whatever it lunges at in the black night unraveling behind the eyes
of any who try lighting fires
for others to write by or cry to
or hide in.
for ***** sake, love that if you
must pry love from something.
just put the ******* pillows down.