The dramatic is never us.
It’s the homeless man talking to himself on the back of the bus.
The dramatic is the voice we use
When describing someone else—when drama visits you, you lose.
Drama is ugly fights, but also—the movie star
Whom we think we love, and when in love, deliciously dramatic is what we are.
So love is this: feeling inside
What, if on display, the whole world would deride.
That’s why love lives in secret, despite
Public, ostentatious marriages and the chorus of love is always right!
The only reason for love ending?
We sigh too loudly, and say to ourselves, is this me? Drama defending?
We sigh too loudly, and we are heard
By our rational self—who knows the dramatic is absurd.
But dramatic is also feeling, and feeling is what we need
To defend ourselves, otherwise we’ll be expressionless when someone hits us and makes us bleed.
Dramatic love fades, but dramatic hate grows
Until this kind of drama is all our heart really knows:
Leave me alone, you asshole, I never loved you,
Or anyone. Alone, in the back of the bus: that’s me, in a year, or two.
The poetic is never us.
Poetry is such a difficult thing to do.
Remember when I gave you that poem and you didn’t think it was for you?