With so much fury
disguised inside glorious verses,
I become the object of adult attention.
Families ask me to write poems for them to read
at the funerals of loved ones.
My windstorm of rhythms, both rhymed
and nearly rhymed, turns into a strange
sort of musical wealth, that I must spend
to help others, even when each furious
burst
of verses
hurts
my wounded heart
and suffering
mind.