The water is deep And it makes me shudder It’s unfair, you know Because when I look at her My eyes are filled Only with what I can’t see But she sees all of me And does nothing to soothe me She offers much But all I get is a glimpse of my own sad eyes
what would you say if I told you that occasionally sometimes even more often than that I don’t like poetry? it’s pretentious isn’t it to think like that and yet I do and yet not liking turns out to be not enough to keep the words from rattling around in me then crawling out of me and landing in rows on a page