One can write of anger, of fear
Of mystery or tears
But one must never write of love

Emotions at first, are a foggy mist
Swirling the depths of our minds,
Intangible, elusive, unlatched -
All we desire is a meaning attached

Through action or words
The mist escapes our souls
Turning to warm liquid
Slightly tangible
Before seeping through our knuckles
Slippery wet

However, you will find,
The most interesting form of emotions that exists
Is when they hit a writer’s page
Like crimson puddles of his blood
Turning from hot liquid life
To solid concrete print

One can write of anger, of fear
Of mystery or tears
But one must never write of love
For it is both a roaring beast
And foggy mist
Neither tangible or tameable
By the confinement of words

So my answer to the question
Of why I never write of love
Is: how can one write a poem about love
When love is a poem in itself?