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."