poetry

I don't write poems; they come to me
in the middle of the night, when I
can't sleep again. I wipe my
watery eyes and feel as though
some me, somewhere, is crying.
Then think: if only.

Poems come to me as if they
are the songs on the radio, the
rain on the patio, and beg to be heard.
I used to push them away, like an
unwanted curd of cottage cheese
but now I say: "Please,
come here, to me."

I know what it's like to not
be listened to, or even heard.
Like a bird that sings its
tune every morning but is cast off
when the world turns, sighs, and
collectively pulls the pillow over
their head. I feel like that now, laying
in bed. It's a dread.

Sometimes I
write poems, but most
of the times, they present
themselves to me. I no longer
ignore their pleas. Call it poetry.