24319. Just Another Love Poem

I don’t write love poetry. It always turns out sad.

Erato, help me; it always turns into a question,

“Why would anyone love someone like me?”

 

I don’t write love poetry. At least, never to be read.

Erato probably cursed me; it’s an unrequited declaration.

A ghost that haunts me incessantly

(Erato, exorcise me)

 

I don’t write love poetry. I mean, what’s the point of it?

I’ve never felt it. Not outside of my family and friends,

Those trustworthy bonds forged in fire over the years.

 

I don’t write love poetry. Not for them.

But maybe I should. Maybe we should.

Maybe we should fill the world with odes to the people in our life we’d be lost without.

The people who have raised us, shaped us, made us who we are.

 

I don’t write love poetry. I don’t believe in Eros’ one shot of romance.

But I believe in trust. I believe in caring.

I believe in giving thanks to the important people in my life.

 

I don’t write love poetry.

I don’t fill pages with pining and yearning,

Or flowery prose about a significant other.

 

I don’t write love poetry. Not for them.

But I should write odes to my family, and volumes to my friends.

Is that not the love poetry we all deserve?

– YLM

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