So much of poetry is sad,

words tied together in uncomfortable
knots, smudged with tears and streaked

with memories.

So much of poetry, is grief.

Horrific howling, and the undiluted rage.
The dragging of the silence,

and the sinking of the heart.

So much of poetry is numbing.

The dark nothingness, the wide spacing between the

The absolute finality of it all.

But sometimes, so much of poetry, just is.

Rusty engine types, gathering dust in the
shelf types; the kind that has not seen
the light of the day type.

So much of poetry,

yet, it is never enough somehow.