These flowery love poems, emotional bursts
of metaphors and people, who needs them?
Not the reader.
The wordy poems, cascading
one word after another, gathering force,
or losing it, as the case may be.
you never know unless you read them all the way,
until it's too late. You've lost precious minutes of your life
reading someone's curious words.
Who among us can vouch that our lines
are of any use once out there, living the life
in the world of other people's thoughts?
Not unless you're Pablo Neruda, who's words are worthy
of this invasion, this occupation.
Pablo is Pablo, and we are not. We must remember
this and conserve.
All I know is you don't need my poems,
and I need yours like another hole in my head.
And you're not writing, which makes you the best poet of all.