Evelyn Elmer
I told my old high school poetry teacher once
that I believe there are a million different types of love
and that I think the same love never happens twice
and that I also think
I love every single person I have ever met
just in a million different ways.
He just looked at me in disbelief for a second
and in slight amazement told me that was a very optimistic view
but he would never be able to share it.
All my life
the renowned examples of written word
preach how love is pain,
and there's no such thing as true love,
and how love is a temptress with honeysuckle lips
drawing you in with spoons of brown sugar until
you wake up alone with a sour taste coating your tongue —
and I've noticed the most gut-wrenching of lines like that
get the most snaps at those poetry slams.
But when your only muse is misery and you're all competing for the heaviest heartache,
what does that make of our art?
But I suppose who the hell wants to read an optimistic writer.
Don't get me wrong.
My favorite poet is Bukowski —
that joyful fellow who
drank until cancer took care of what the alcohol didn't.
I'm optimistic enough to believe that is the best humankind is destined for anyways.
But in-between the bouts of intoxication
(or even in the midst)
even he wrote about love.
I wonder if he would agree with me.
But millions swoon over Bukowski and his words,
and who the hell wants to read an optimistic writer.
Nevertheless,
I will not change my nature.
Despite the stubborn irony
it took me a lifetime to get here.
So I will continue writing about how
I think Narcissist himself would be jealous
of how I fell in love with the sound of my own laughter
when it rings clear though the air.
And about how for as long as your heart keeps beating
you deserve joy.
You are included in the beauty of this universe
and there are a million different ways to love you.
But what ethos do I have,
because who the hell wants to read an optimistic writer?
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