I wonder why
all the poems I write
Are composed at
the mercy of lovers
And why my lovers
can't be the green grass
that peaks out of
melting snowbanks
in early spring
Or the first sip
of coffee at 8 a.m.
on a mellow Saturday morning
in a cafe next to the lake.
Why do we choose
to rest our weary hearts
on things we can't depend on
When we know that the grass
will appear every spring
and we can sip our coffee
and the sun will rise
and the lake will be full
and so will our hearts
If only we requested
simple things to thrive
We could sip coffee with lovers
Next to the lake
At 8 a.m.
And not feel such pain.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
I wonder why
all the poems I write
Are composed at
the mercy of lovers
And why my lovers
can't be the green grass
that peaks out of
melting snowbanks
in early spring
Or the first sip
of coffee at 8 a.m.
on a mellow Saturday morning
in a cafe next to the lake.
Why do we choose
to rest our weary hearts
on things we can't depend on
When we know that the grass
will appear every spring
and we can sip our coffee
and the sun will rise
and the lake will be full
and so will our hearts
If only we requested
simple things to thrive
We could sip coffee with lovers
Next to the lake
At 8 a.m.
And not feel such pain.
