Poems
I feel bad for poems,
especially the ones written
with so much of the heart
pouring into them.
Eventually, the poet forgets
about them.
I feel bad for poems,
poems that are lost in pages,
yellowed, torn, forgotten
with time.
I like to think
that before the muse ever hears them,
the poems themselves hear the poet.
They try to reflect as many emotions as possible,
to make the poet understandable.
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I hope no poem ever sees the day
when it just stays there, forgotten
in the poet’s life,
like an old dusty teddy
hidden in the attic,
never to be seen or played with again.
I feel bad for poems
the way they get to listen to themselves
even before the muse.
They know what’s coming next.
They know what thread, what place
the needle will strike,
what point, what page
the pen will bleed on.
Do poems ever feel for themselves?
Like, I have written a heart-shattering poem, say,
a few lines, and the nature of the poem
is revealed to her.
She knows what’s coming next.
What shape she would be molded into,
which piece she would be knitted into
by the very weaver
who created a happy version of her years ago.
Long forgotten, it stays.
The happier version,
in the attic,
never to be played with again.
