Since I am so sensitive,
fear makes me sick.
To remain well
I am ignorant as hell,
hidden from everything that might
make me sit up in the middle of the night
thinking and worrying.
The slightest worry is enough for me
to go mad—unable to write poetry.
I am no Byron or Shelley,
sexy, on dangerous seas.
Don’t expect me to be them, please.
Some poets describe mighty heartaches
bravely, frankly, in a scientific tone.
But I do the opposite.
My poem is as homely as can be.
Safe. Immured. Like me.