i write about the things that don’t exist, the things i wish existed, the thoughts i never share

of love and she and gods and dreams and life to be lived and words meant to be given

but they are not love poems

they are missives sent to the vacant sky above in hopes when they finally lose momentum and crash to the ground someone picks it up and sees the me that stays hidden from the public eye

bullets shot from my small caliber aorta in painful gasps of cloudy crimson need and desperate desire

but they are not love poems

for i am no poet, no bard, no minstrel travelling town to town and exciting crowds

no, not i

i am a child with clumsy grip on a too big crayon drawing stick figure representations of what he thinks the world is like outside this cave

transcribing shadow into facsimiles of living things

describing second hand renderings of tall tales passed down through generations until the truth and the grandiose become one and the same

not spinning out love poems

but myths brandished with desire and colored with misunderstood ramblings from drunken relatives with no relation to what is and what could never be

a deaf man painting the sounds of the orchestra for a blind man to see

incongruent with the world around me

a cartographer with no sense of distance or direction

plucking tufts of grass and calling them flowers

writing of love but not writing to love

for that is just outside outstretched hands that shake and reach only to come back bleeding and bent

i write about things that don’t really exist, to people that never lived, of words never given

of love and she and gods and dreams and wishes

but they are not love poems

they are just words