When I was little
I wanted to write romance novels
It was all I read
But my heart won’t let me
No matter how many love stories I start
My soulmate is poetry

I don’t want money!
How many times do I have to say it?
I know my verses will lead to nothing
But at least I’m whole
Isn’t that what we needed?
A purpose
I’ve found mine: writing cheap poetry
that only sells to crazy hearts longing to understand
Understand what?
I have no idea
I only know that art is this—being ecstatic
Not trapped in some rule because someone said so
Do it differently
Put that dot outside the curve and
Tada! Art!
Only there does the magic make sense
Sorry, babe, you tried so hard to make me rich
But I found my wealth elsewhere
I know, you’ll tell me that money can’t buy happiness
But it can buy many other things
Still, without it
I found peace

One day I went to a very rich man’s house for dinner
He told me:
“You write cheap poetry”
I replied:
“Yes—because if it were expensive,
even your heart couldn’t afford it”

I want to do other things
the chores call me
but each time it’s harder
poetry has tangled me in such a way that
ah…
I just want to keep drinking from it
forever

I thought only in prose
I could be whoever I wanted to be
How mistaken I was—here too!
I can be a thousand and one things
And you? Can you be who you are without art?
I doubt it
But if you show up before me painted in gold
I’ll believe
Yes, I’ll believe
The world is mad