They say that a poem can be anything. A bag of jelly beans. An artful array of oranges. The way a seed dances in the wind. But I do not fret for those things. Certainly pretty, but dull on my fingers, soft like a ball of cheese. No, what really matters are not the words, but the blood carrying my thoughts and the jumbled feelings in my spleen. These things cannot fall out in words or march out in lines. No, they come as they please and go as they will, and take far too long to assemble. My soul can writhe and my body can thaw, but no poem shall feel as I do. A poem can be anything. Anything just is not enough.