I guess you must like poems to write poems, but I can’t say I do.
Because after all this time I don’t come back to poems, I come back to words.
For fun my mind finds words that fit nicely, and I give them a home in a
sentence.
My sentences are delicate and they are simple but I care for them like a
gardener does her prized roses.

But you can’t write a book with just a bunch of pretty little words splashed on
a page, I tell my mind.
And a poem can’t be one sentence long either. Sentences are meant to add up to
something larger, you see,
and mostly people skim through the words; they over look them.
It’s a real plot they’re after.

…But still I think of those pretty sentences and write them down.
And though I don’t quite know what to do with them yet, for now I feel they
belong in my notebook.
And there my work is unharmed because the only beings that see it are me and the
ceiling.
My pretty sentences will never be seen to be judged.
And I will never know if they are good or not
Or if I should continue or stop
Or if I should take the risk
and let the world hear those pretty words.