"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
I am not sad enough to write a poem –
nor enough in love, or too far out.
I sit in the middle of a venn and wait
for all the feelings to come to bait.
I await a sweet seduction into sadness,
or a bomb of love to hit me and
fracture all my thoughts.
An oozing in of mustard lust
In a battlefield of hope.
Instead, I am a Marianna –
patiently looking through lancet windows,
until a normcore knight
relieves my acheing fingers,
that I might sit and write.