Writing a poem is not always speaking your mind.
It doesn’t have to be your nature. It doesn’t have to rewind
To the past and necessarily link with something private.
It can just be an idea you chose not to forget.
And yet when I write a poem, they always have to ask
Is this about me? No, I say. And it becomes a task
To explain each one how, in real life, I actually see
The world and myself- logical, practical, emotionally free.
It’s bad to explain, worse to not; people misunderstand
And think of me as one who loves being given a hand
Of protection and sensitivity. With whatever of my feminine grace,
All I love are freedom, logic, work and lots of space.
Such a girl doesn’t mean her love poems. The sky, roses and trees
Are aesthetic, not moving. And romance isn’t all she sees.
But apparently people don’t think so. Especially the guys.
They try to court with poems and eventually time flies
And they realise I’m too hard to melt, too rough
To smoothen, too busy to boost their egos enough.
Poof! They are gone, gone with the wind just like that
Leaving me unpursued. So you see, my life’s pretty flat.
Except a bundle of poems written by infatuated boys serving as a ghost of my feminine treasures.