I wrote a poem
(Because I felt inspired)
About my mom,
And I showed it to my grandparents.
They loved it,
And it made them cry,
So I wrote more,
About other topics.
They liked those too,
But only some of them,
And they never loved another one again.
It made me wonder,
Was I really a good writer,
Or was it just because of what I had written about,
That they had liked my work so much?
And is that how it always is,
That we don’t like the work that’s best written,
But the one that touches us most deeply?
I would say yes,
But the truth is,
That the poems that touch us,
Are the only ones we ever really read.
When have you ever read a poem,
That wasn’t about you?