I will not write you a sad poem
Sad poetry seems to be all there is anymore
I don’t know what changed.
Roses were red and violets blue but then the free verse came
And peeked into the spaces between the lines and found…
Then sad poetry was crafted ever after.
But I won’t write you a sad poem.
I will not write you a sad poem.
You deserve something better than false similes
About the aching of hearts
And the vastness of the stars
There are no stars here
Nor are there beautiful vague lines to make you weep.
There are your hands, too big by far and rough with work,
Constantly stained black with grease and oil and a bit of god-knows-what
As though you’ve been worrying a newspaper between your fingers all day.
But it isn’t ink, you don’t read after all.
Don’t worry, I don’t hate you for it.
Instead it makes you stranger to me, more precious.
This creature with dark eyes, muscled arms hammering metal out
Beating it as though it were all