I hate that you think that
all good poetry aught
to be of
love and waiting
how can you read
words of wars and rivers of blood
of all the odes to a rainbow of skin and
women who find themselves a face, a soul
and four liners that fizz in your mouth
of flies and fleas and everything there is
there are words of whores
of fires quenched by a stranger's kisses
and there are sheets and sheets
of everyday
ordinary
that will one day be keys to piecing
our history
just like we pour over scribbles on walls.

love is beautiful
and waiting a bittersweet agony
but life is more.

You are more.