I would like to write a poem about music.
About the individual ways it seeps into wandering thoughts,
and dries and hardens to block out the rest
like cement.
But right now, my ears have swarms of orders and demands and complaints.


I would like to write a poem about love.
About how it overcomes anyone completely,
without an agenda or discrimination,
and stays there.
But right now, everyone tells me love is just a silly thing;
and not to worry.


I would like to write a poem about people.
About the beauty in them that no one seems to see anymore.
Not about the ugly hate, that incapacitates, and suffocates
that beauty.


I would like sit down in a sunny spot and write a poem about life.
A poem about thinking,
and what is or might be beyond the beyond.
If there is one.
But right now, I’m too busy writing a poem about what I can do;
Living.