Poetry is not comfortable

like the humming of a mower

on an autumn morning,

nor is it the sounds of the birds

outside my bedroom window.

 

It always has been 

a missing tooth that my tongue runs over,

no matter how funny it feels.

 

It is the hangnail

itching to be picked,

though I know the consequences

of such an action.

 

It is raw,

and it is emotional,

and it is 

u n c o m f o r t a b l e.

 

But it is these qualities

that make it vital,

for how may I ever find comfort

unless I learn to do without?