My love poems don't go to people
They go to cards
I write them down on paper
And lock them 'way safer.

My poems of beauty don't go to objects
They go to paper too
And when I have made more than a thousand and one
I will put them in envelopes and they'll all be gone.

To every house in the city,
Every house in the world
My best effort for their pleasure
With a true to word measure,

'This poem is yours, selfishly so,
For I am taking so much from you
The happiness of knowing so well
That I tried to build you a happier Hell.'

Slipped through each letterbox, stealthy notes
To tell each person they deserve this,
Love poems, Beauty poems, poems in hiding
All are for people for keeping, residing

In a drawer they should stay, till one fateful day
They can open it and remember
It wasn't my selfishness that caused them to get this
It was their beauty and nothing else ever.