Nor do they spring from loss
They are just fleeting thoughts
Or so are mine, maybe not yours
To each, his own
To eat, his own
To keep, his own
To weep, his own
Yet are these of value?
True? Real? Honest?
Or is it a facade,
Of our dilemmas and dogmas
Where one can love, one can lie so
Where one can make love, one can lie so
Where one can feel, the other can choose to not
Where one can miss, the other can ignore
These are but human
Only human
Or have we as a species lost the essence
Of what makes us ?
Poems don't spring from sadness
Nor from loss
They are a poet's pretenciousness
Singing to the world, hiding his wails.
You can read their words and postulate
Hypothesize, critique, pander to, romanticize
But you can never try to read the person
Behind those lines
I have tried, and I have failed
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