Pablo Neruda wrote too many love poems
Almost all about how someone compares to the ocean
But he forgot
The often times both human
And nature
Are more storm than calm
The sea is reckless and unforgiving
And already there are too many writings
About softness and sweet
Too many sonnets about gentle
Love
Is not gentle
Love grabs from the roots and pulls with savage hands
Demands to be more than just flower
More than white petal admiration
Love is thorn and finger-pricking
Bleeding palms and heavy skin
Love
Is often ugly
And I am wondering how
Neruda found it possible
To find so much beauty in it
How it is possible
To write so much beauty
I can only guess
That he must have had a love
Greater than most
A love that molded his heart into convection oven
Spitting his words into saccharin and sweet
Candy for the world to savor in their mouths
Maybe he always wrapped his language in gold
Or maybe it's just that he saw what others couldn't
Found spark in the ordinary
Somehow managed
To string together letters in crochet
Sew them into masterpiece
I want a love
That can make me do the same
I still think Neruda
Wrote too many love poems
But it makes sense
When you are told to write what you know
And all you know
Is love.