In Case There’s an Issue With My Poetry

I don’t have to only write love poems. 

 

I could type away about the rustic orange changes in the 

Michigan scenery on my road trip to Midland. 

I could write on how the autumnal colors blur together

 

into an ombre of ocre and aimless whimsy.  

I could write about the freckles of peaks 

 

the Cascades used to adorn from the starboard

side of my uncle’s sailboat.

If I desperately wanted to, I could

 

write about how much I wanted to drown myself

in the rainforested mysticism only found in the 

Pacific Northwest. 

 

I could,

I could,

I could- but a muse just walked into my coffee shop

 

and I’d rather spin the story I created in my head

for the two of us before he could even put in his coffee order.

 

I’d rather write about the eye catching moments with the only person

whose eyes somehow match his hair color and the way he says

“I’ll know you’ve been here.” 

 

I only desire to ramble on about the happily ever-almost-afters that could’ve

happened if I weren’t the “hide behind my poetry” type.  

 

I don’t have to only write love poems, but

how else would I live if I didn’t?

 

By Gabrielle Crone

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