I knew he was not for me
when he suggested
I sell my poems.

“They’re good,”
he said
“People will buy them.”

(If you’re writing poems
so people will buy them,
you’re missing
the point entirely.)

I write poems because
I can’t not write poems–
I cut myself and lyric
language and observations
about the world as I know
it pour out onto the
page, drop by drop.

And it’s potent stuff.

Sometimes it spurts onto
the page in bright red
drops: sometimes it flow
in parallel
rivulets: sometimes it’s a
deluge, like a dam has
broken: the poems
cascade onto the page,
soaking my notebook until
it’s floating in a crimson
pool and I’m afraid I’ve
cut too deep.

I don’t write poems
so people will buy them.
It’s literary blood-letting.
Singularly mine &
not to be monetized.