Long ago I learned not to think of my poems as wasted
Even if I bleed a thousand of them for the very same heart
That never bothers to look my way.
They are not wasted, on you, on anybody.
If I write you fifty and you write me one,
If I write hundreds to explain you and you never need to explain me,
I have still not wasted a single line.
That is not what I am about.
These poems are about people, not for them.
When they are seen and loved by the people they sing to,
I glow, it's true.
But if they remain caked in dust, unopened and silent like love letters never posted,
They will lose none of their radiance, tucked away.
They are not for you:
They are about you,
But these poems
Are for me.