Doesn’t that strike you like someone who knows all your trigger points? We read em’ sure. We read every last word start to end again, and again. Alright I’m not telling it straight.
The truth is no loves your poems the same way that they love
the way your poems get them feeling.
Yes, they love the way you write it out of them,
how it drags them under the current,
and holds their consciousness for ransom!
How could they love your poems as much; When that feeling they get comes shooting from their viscerals roaring like a migration of butterflies, and birds, and bees bursting from the back of their throat – They’ve just got to fly
There is no time to stop and love your poems the way they must go out and catch every last winged creature that spewed forth into the wide opened mouth of the sky
No one loves your poems like that; But does it matter if it made their blood pump a little quicker the next few times around the circuit?
Does it matter if it leaves the hairs on their arms standing tall, while the the scent of it all lingers in their soul like the smell of a long night on the bed sheets?