I tried to write a poem to get the feelings out. They said poetry Went with angst Almost as well as Sylvia Plath and- Repetition.
But I wrote a poem And another And another And another.
And they felt wrong And got shorter and shorter And less and less creative And didn’t look much like art
Painting is art Sculpture is art Music is art. Whining isn’t.
That’s the thing With poetry; It’s art Or it’s nothing
And I seemed like a nothing And I must have felt nothing Because nothing was on the page And I had nothing left to add
Because “Why do good people die?” Is trite And “Is war such a good idea?” Has been done by the Beatles. “I can’t stop crying” Mostly rings true for babies And they rarely If ever Read poems.
So I had only one word That could sum up the tight and the hurt and the lost And a word’s not a poem At all- is it?
I wish I were eloquent I wish it were pretty I wish my hands could heal you And my voice could soothe you And my laugh infect you And my heart reach you My words touch you My arms hold you and fix you but all I have is “you."