My poems are not what at first was meant.
The stubborn words and rhymes pull me away
from what at first I thought I wished to say.
What's said is almost that, but curved and bent
pulled firm and taut. The arrow from the bow
of words flies clear and hits a target, not
the one intended but a lovely shot
that ends precisely where it needs to go.
And love's the same; it hurts to be pulled tense
by rules, your other loves, days we don't speak
because of colds or jealousy. I'm weak
but somehow manage turn pain into sense.
Get past the lust you see burn in my eyes.
No love or poems without sacrifice.