I write about what I believe
and believe in what I write
and I often write fairy tale like poems
about love to girls and women
who do not exist
because love is an easy thing
to care for when it is make believe
and a much harder thing to tend to
when it is living inside a heart
that is inside a chest
that is covered in soft skin
and under a mouth with warm lips
and a gentle smile
that is kind enough in the morning light
and beautiful even under the darkest thoughts
and fears of loneliness
and if only I had known better
in my youth these fairy tales
would be biographies instead
but the sad truth is sad for a reason
and I still haven’t found a cure
for stupidity or shyness
and in the hour of solitude
I find comfort in the keys
of a dying typewriter
where the ink sputters and spits
onto the page coughing and choking
to hold back the tears
as I write another fairy tale
of the make believe
but still have trouble believing
in what I make