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Poetry is for Ugly People
We are all ugly
Poetry is for you, the one with the right eye that’s slightly larger than your left eye. It’s for you, the one who is too thin, and me, the one who is too fat. Poetry is for all of us with scars, burns, and birthmarks.
It’s for you, the one with one leg noticeably shorter than the other leg, and for you the one with only one leg, and for you the one with no legs. It’s for you, the one who is too urban or too foreign or too rural or too much of a color others can’t see past.
Poetry is for anyone who has ever looked in the mirror and cried.
Poetry is for people who are too boy or too girl, and for people who are not women enough or not man enough.
It’s for you, the one who talks too much and too loudly. Poetry is for you, the one who speaks too quietly, and you the one who doesn’t speak at all. It’s for bad listeners and good daydreamers.
Poetry is for the broke and brokenhearted. It’s for lovers and victims, dancers and plastic water bottle acrobats.
Poetry is for anyone who wonders if a grove of aspens can think or what horrors the stars have seen.
Poetry is for the ones who are ugly on the outside. It’s for those of us who are ugly on the inside — all blood and guts, secrets and lies, private bigotries and quiet betrayals.
It’s for you if you’re too much, and for you if you’re never enough. It’s for you if you’re too old, too young, too early, or too late. It’s for you if you want to hide or you if you need to be seen.
Poetry is for us ugly people — it’s for me and you.
