Problem with Poems

The problem

with poems

is that they are no more

than objects


in solution.

Like pickles in a jar

they may have another

flavour and aroma,

texture, colour,

even movement

bobbling around.

But they don't seem

to decompose,

rot, stink,

reek. They

don't change

with time.

They don't

have life;

they're objects,

and since I can't

converse with

these ever traipsing corpses,

I will leave them,

though they'll never

leave me.

The problem with poems

is a short-lived


with a foreigner,

cause you think

they can't understand

anything but your physical,

and you can't describe

what you're thinking

because you really

don't know.

You hope they have ideas,

ideals, religion, wants,

fear, love, hate,

all human qualities

but it seems to you

they only repeat

what you have said before

and conversations grow

all too familiar.

Like a pickle out

of the same jar,

once you've tasted one

you roughly know

what the next one

will taste like.

At least you think you do.

That's the problem

with poems.