I often wonder
Why I can't write a nice little poem.
You know the kind-
A nice, little poem
About the woods,
Or maybe a field.
Perhaps about a butterfly or a cat.
Maybe about hope, or sunshine.
I often wonder
Why no matter how hard I try
To write
Nice
Little
Poems
They grow fangs
And spit the truth like venom.
I can never seem to write to somebody
Without saying precisely how I see them
No matter how unfavorable the view may be.
What I think just....
Spills out, all over the page-
Every theory, every wicked little judgement
(All the more wicked because many of them are accurate.)
Every criticism that I haven't the gall,
The courage,
Or the tactlessness
To say aloud.
Why, tell me,
Can I not quit this nasty business
Of hashing out and knowing in flowing language
Just what I think of the people I love?
And just write a
Nice
Little
Poem.