I tend not to write poems
About anything but love
Not confusion, or any other emotions.
The only sure thing I feel
The rest is humble,
A pile of dirty laundry.
No one else’s responsibility
But my own.
Therefore, my intent,
A light-hearted sentiment,
Is to let my dirty laundry define me.
Let the world see my wrinkled T-shirt,
The one I wear to bed but never in public
The jeans that used to fit, but that’s another story for another time-
Why not now? Why not here?